NOVEL 


umv. 


CALIF.  IJ.  LOS 


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This,  he  suddenly  perceived,  was  war 


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A  NOVEL 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
REGINALD  B.  BIRCH 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1914 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
THE  CENTUBY  Co. 


Published,  January,  1914 


HOMK 


2125571 


"  Seer,  in  thine  eyes  is  wisdom  and  in 
thy  silvered  beard.  How  shall  I  give 
that  which  hath  been  given  ?  " 

"My  son,  I  read  the  riddle:  How 
shalt  thou  paint  the  picture  and  give 
the  eyes  to  see?  This  is  the  answer. 
Hold  thy  heart  in  thy  hand  and  let  thy 
words  keep  time  to  the  beat  of  memory. 
Thus  shall  the  written  page  be  pos- 
sessed of  an  enduring  spirit  and  a  per- 
vading light." 


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CHAPTER  I 


ON"  an  Indian  summer  afternoon  of  not  very  long 
ago  Red  Hill  drowsed  through  the  fleeting  hours 
as  though  not  only  time  but  mills,  machinery  and  rail- 
ways were  made  for  slaves.  Hemmed  in  by  the  breath- 
ing silences  of  scattered  woods,  open  fields  and  the  far 
reaches  of  misty  space,  it  seemed  to  forget  that  the 
traveler,  studying  New  England  at  the  opening  of  the 
twentieth  century  through  the  windows  of  a  hurrying 
train,  might  sigh  for  a  vanished  ideal  and  concede  the 
universal  triumph  of  a  commercial  age. 

For  such  a  one  Red  Hill  held  locked  a  message,  and 
the  key  to  the  lock  was  the  message  itself :  "  Turn 
your  back  on  the  paralleled  rivers  and  railroads  and 
plunge  into  the  byways  that  lead  into  the  eternal  hills 
and  you  will  find  the  world  that  was  and  still  is." 

Let  such  a  traveler  but  follow  a  lane  that  leads  up 
through  willow  and  elderberry,  sassafras,  laurel,  wild 
cherry  and  twining  clematis ;  a  lane  aligned  with  slender 
wood-maples,  hickory  and  mountain-ash  and  flanked 
where  it  gains  the  open  with  scattered  juniper  and  oak, 
and  he  will  come  out  at  last  on  the  scenes  of  a  coun- 
try's childhood. 

At  right  angles  to  the  lane,  a  broad  way,  cutting  the 

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f 

length  of  the  hill,  and  losing  itself  in  a  dip  at  each  end 
toward  the  valleys  and  the  new  world.  The  broad  way 
is  shaded  by  one  of  two  trees — the  domed  maple  or  the 
stately  elm.  At  the  summit  of  its  rise  stands  an  old 
church  whose  green  shutters  blend  with  the  caressing 
foliage  of  primeval  trees.  Its  white  walls  and  tower- 
ing steeple  dominate  the  scene.  White,  too,  are  the 
scattered  houses  that  gleam  from  behind  the  verdure 
of  unbroken  lawns  and  shrubbery,  white  all  but  one, 
whose  time-stained  brick  glows  blood-red  against  the 
black-green  of  clinging  ivy. 

Not  all  these  homes  are  alive.  Here  a  charred  beam 
tells  the  story  of  a  fire,  there  a  mound  of  trailing  vines 
tenderly  hides  from  view  the  shame  of  a  ruin,  and 
there  again  stands  a  tribute  to  the  power  of  the  new 
age — a  house  whose  shutters  are  closed  and  barred; 
white  now  only  in  patches,  its  scaling  walls  have  taken 
on  the  dull  gray  of  neglected  pine. 

For  generations  these  houses  have  sent  out  men,  for 
generations  they  have  taken  them  back.  Their  cup- 
boards guard  trophies  from  the  seven  seas  paid  for 
with  the  Yankee  nutmeg,  swords  wrought  from  plow- 
shares and  christened  with  the  blood  of  the  oppressor, 
a  long  line  of  collegiate  sheepskins,  and  last,  but  by 
no  means  least,  recipes  whose  faded  ink  and  brittle 
paper  sum  the  essence  of  ages  of  culinary  wisdom. 

Some  of  these  clustered  homes  live  the  year  round 
at  full  swing  but  the  life  of  some  is  cut  down  in  the 
winter  to  a  minimum  only  to  spring  up  afresh  in 
summer  like  the  new  stalk  from  a  treasured  bulb.  Of 
such  was  the  little  kingdom  of  Eed  Hill. 


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Ked  Hill  was  very  still  on  this  Indian  summer  after- 
noon as  though  it  were  in  hiding  from  the  railroads, 
mills  and  highways  of  an  age  of  hurry.  Upon  its  long, 
level  crest  it  bore  but  three  centers  of  life  and  a  sym- 
bol: Maple  House,  The  Firs  and  Elm  House,  half 
hidden  from  the  road  by  their  distinctive  trees  but  as 
alive  as  the  warm  eyes  of  a  veiled  woman;  and  the 
church. 

The  church  was  but  a  symbol  —  a  mere  shell. 
Within,  it  presented  the  appearance  of  a  lumber  room 
in  disuse,  a  playground  for  rats  and  a  haven  for  dust. 
But  without,  all  was  as  it  had  ever  been;  for  the  old 
church  was  still  beloved.  Its  fresh  white  walls  and 
green  shutters  and  the  aspiring  steeple,  towering  into 
the  blue,  denied  neglect  and  robbed  abandonment  of 
its  sting. 

In  the  shadow  of  its  walls  lay  an  old  graveyard  whose 
overgrown  soil  had  long  been  undisturbed.  Along  the 
single  road  which  cut  the  crest  of  the  Hill  from  north 
to  south  were  ruins  of  houses  that  once  had  sheltered 
the  scattered  congregation.  But  the  ruins  were  hard 
to  find  for  they  too  were  overgrown  by  juniper, 
clematis  and  a  crowding  thicket  of  mountain-ash. 

On  these  evidences  of  death  and  encroachment  the 
old  church  seemed  to  turn  its  back  as  if  by  right  of 
its  fresh  walls  and  unbroken  steeple  it  were  still  linked 
to  life.  Through  its  small-paned  windows  it  seemed 
to  gaze  contentedly  across  the  road  at  the  three  houses, 
widely  separated,  that  half  faced  it  in  a  diminishing 
perspective.  The  three  houses  looked  towards  the 
sunrise;  the  church  towards  its  decline. 


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The  supper  call  had  sounded  and  the  children's  an- 
swering cries  had  ceased.  Along  the  ribbon  of  the 
single  road  scurried  an  overladen  donkey.  Three 
lengths  of  legs  bobbed  at  varying  angles  from  her  fat 
sides.  Behind  her  hurried  a  nurse,  aghast  for  the 
hundredth  time  at  the  donkey's  agility,  never  demon- 
strated except  at  the  evening  hour. 

Halfway  between  Maple  House  and  The  Firs  stood 
two  bare-legged  boys  working  their  toes  into  the  im- 
palpable dust  of  the  roadway  and  rubbing  the  grit  into 
their  ankles  in  a  final  orgy  of  dirt  before  the  evening 
wash.  They  called  derisively  to  the  donkey  load  of 
children,  bound  to  bed  with  the  setting  sun. 

On  the  veranda  of  Elm  House  an  old  man  in  shirt 
sleeves  sat  whittling  on  to  a  mat,  especially  laid  at  his 
feet.  Beside  the  fluted  pillars  of  the  high  portico  he 
looked  very  small.  The  big,  still  house  and  the  tall 
elms  that  crowded  the  lawn  seemed  to  brood  over  him 
as  though  they  knew  that  he  was  not  only  small  but 
young  —  merely  one  of  the  many  generations  of  Eltons 
they  had  mothered  and  sheltered  through  the  long 
years  that  make  light  of  a  single  life. 

From  the  barn  behind  the  house  came  the  slam  of  the 
oat-bin  and  a  sudden  chorus  of  eager  whinnies.  The 
whinnies  were  answered  from  the  roadway.  The  old 
man  looked  up.  A  wagonette  appeared  over  the  brow 
of  Eed  Hill.  It  was  drawn  by  two  lean,  well-con- 
ditioned bays  whose  long,  quick  stride  reached  out  for 
stables  and  oats.  The  wagonette  was  crowded.  The 
old  man  answered  cries  and  waving  hands  and  his  eyes 
followed  the  bays  down  the  road  and  twinkled  as  they 


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saw  the  wagonette  swerve  and  plow  through  the  grass, 
surrendering  the  right  of  way  to  the  fat  donkey. 

At  The  Firs,  home  of  the  Lansings  even  before  the 
Eltons  had  come  to  Elm  House,  the  veranda  was 
vacant;  but  a  big  chair  was  still  slowly  rocking.  Be- 
side it  lay  a  pile  of  snowy  sewing,  hastily  dropped. 
An  overturned  work-basket  disgorged  a  tangled  med- 
ley of  skeins,  needles,  pins  and  scraps.  A  fugitive 
thimble  described  a  wide  circle  and  brought  up  against 
one  of  the  veranda  posts.  From  the  distant  kitchen 
came  the  smell  of  something  burning. 

At  Elm  House  and  The  Firs  there  was  life  and 
peace  but  down  the  road  at  Maple  House,  home  of  the 
Waynes,  life  reigned  alone  on  this  autumn  evening. 
With  the  arrival  of  the  wagonette  and  its  load,  all  was 
commotion.  A  stable-hand  ran  out  to  take  charge  of 
the  bays.  Excited  children  left  their  supper  and  in- 
sisted on  being  kissed  all  around  by  the  newcomers. 
Youth  called  to  age  and  age  laughed  back.  A  hostess 
with  quiet  eyes  dispensed  welcome,  playfully  affection- 
ate to  returning  members  of  the  family,  seriously  cordial 
to  the  stranger  within  the  gates.  Then  she  slipped 
away  to  speak  a  word  to  the  kitchen  and  to  glance  over 
the  great  table  in  the  dining-room,  for  to-night  Eltons, 
Lansings  and  Waynes  were  to  dine  at  a  single  board. 

They  gathered  twenty  strong,  a  sturdy  lot.  From 
old  Captain  Wayne  to  little  Clematis  McAlpin,  pro- 
moted for  a  night  from  the  children's  table,  they  bore 
the  stamp  of  fighters,  veterans  and  veterans  to  be. 
Life  had  marked  the  faces  of  the  men  and  time  had 
mellowed  the  faces  of  the  women.  In  the  cheeks  of 


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the  young  color  glowed  and  in  their  eyes  a  fire  burned. 
Life  challenged  them.  Their  spirits  were  eager  to 
take  up  the  gage. 

On  Red  Hill  the  mountain-ash  thicket  that  gave  the 
place  its  name,  was  in  its  full  glory.  Its  carmine 
flame  called  defiance  at  the  disappearing  sun.  The  old 
white  church  caught  the  fiery  light  of  the  sun  in  the 
small  panes  of  its  windows  and  sent  back  a  message 
too,  across  the  valleys  and  over  the  hills,  but  there  was 
no  defiance  in  it  —  only  a  cry  to  the  world  that  the 
old  church  still  stood. 

Night  fell  on  the  Hill.  The  stars  came  out  and 
with  them  a  glow  of  light  and  warmth  lit  up  the  win- 
dows of  Maple  House,  Elm  House  and  The  Firs.  A 
smell  of  hot  biscuit  lingered  in  the  still  air.  The  soft 
voices  of  women  hushing  children  to  sleep  came  like 
the  breath  of  life  from  the  quiet  houses. 

Here  a  song,  sifting  softly  through  the  rustle  of 
many  trees,  there  the  crying,  quickly  hushed,  of  a 
frightened,  wakened  baby,  and  far  up  the  road,  the 
trailing  whistle  of  a  boy  signaling  good-night,  passed 
into  the  silence.  Lastly  the  moon  burst  over  the  ridge 
of  East  Mountain  and  in  the  path  of  its  soft  light  the 
old  church  stole  back  into  the  picture. 


CHAPTER  II 

AJTUMN"  passed  and  winter,  then  on  a  day  in 
early  spring  Alan  Wayne  was  summoned  to 
Red  Hill.  Snow  still  hung  in  the  crevices  of  East 
Mountain.  On  the  Hill  the  ashes,  after  the  total 
eclipse  of  winter,  were  meekly  donning  pale  green. 
The  elms  of  Elm  House  too  were  but  faintly  outlined 
in  verdure  and  stood  like  empty  sherry  glasses  wait- 
ing for  warm  wine.  Further  down  the  road  the 
maples  stretched  out  bare,  black  limbs  whose  budding 
tufts  of  leaves  served  only  to  emphasize  the  nakedness 
of  the  trees.  Only  the  firs,  in  a  phalanx,  scoffed  at 
the  general  spring  cleaning  and  looked  old  and  sullen 
in  consequence. 

The  colts,  driven  by  Alan  Wayne,  flashed  over  the 
brim  of  Red  Hill  on  to  the  level  top.  Coachman  Joe's 
jaw  was  hanging  in  awe  and  so  had  hung  since  Mr. 
Alan  had  taken  the  reins.  For  the  first  time  in  their 
five  years  of  equal  life  the  colts  had  felt  the  cut  of  a 
whip,  not  in  anger  but  as  a  reproof  for  breaking. 
Coachman  Joe  had  braced  himself  for  the  bolt,  his 
hands  itching  to  snatch  the  reins.  But  there  had  been 
no  bolting,  only  a  sudden  settling  down  to  business. 

For  the  first  time  in  their  lives  the  colts  were  being 
pushed,  steadily,  evenly,  almost  —  but  never  quite 
—  to  the  breaking  point.  Twice  in  the  long  drive  Joe 

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gathered  up  his  jaw  and  turned  his  head,  preparing 
spoken  tribute  to  a  master  hand.  But  there  was  no 
speaking  to  Mr.  Alan's  face.  At  that  moment  Joe  was 
a  part  of  the  seat  to  Mr.  Alan  and,  being  a  coachman 
of  long  standing  in  the  family,  he  knew  it. 

"  Could  n't  of  got  here  quicker  if  he  'd  let  'em  bolt," 
said  he,  in  subsequent  description  to  the  stable-hand 
and  the  cook.  He  snatched  up  a  pail  of  water  and 
poured  it  steadily  on  the  ground.  "  Jest  like  that. 
He  knew  what  was  in  the  colts  the  minute  he  laid  hands 
on  'em  and  when  he  pulls  'em  up  at  the  barn  door  there 
was  n't  a  drop  left  in  their  buckets,  was  there,  Ar- 
thur?" 

"  Nary  a  drop,"  said  Arthur,  stable-hand. 

"  And  his  face,"  continued  the  coachman.  "  Most 
times  Mr.  Alan  has  no  eyes  to  speak  of,  but  to-day  and 
that  time  Miss  Nance  stuck  him  with  the  hatpin  — 
'member,  cook?  —  his  eyes  spread  like  a  fire  and  eat 
up  his  face.  This  is  a  black  day  for  the  Hill.  Some- 
thin  's  going  to  happen.  You  mark  me." 

In  truth  Mr.  Alan  Wayne  had  been  summoned  in 
no  equivocal  terms  and,  for  all  his  haste,  it  was  with 
nervous  step  he  approached  the  house. 

There  was  no  den,  no  sanctuary  beyond  a  bedroom, 
for  any  one  at  Maple  House.  No  one  brought  work 
to  Red  Hill  save  such  work  as  fitted  into  swinging 
hammocks  and  leafy  bowers.  Library  opened  into 
living-room  and  hall,  hall  into  drawing-room  and 
drawing-room  into  the  cool  shadows  and  high  lights 
of  half -hidden  mahogany  and  china  closets.  And  here 
and  there  and  everywhere  doors  opened  out  on  to  the 


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Hill.  A  place  where  summer  breezes  entered  freely 
and  played,  sure  of  a  way  out.  Hence  it  was  that 
Maple  House  as  a  whole  became  a  tomb  on  that  mem- 
orable spring  morning  when  the  colts  first  felt  a  mas- 
ter hand  —  a  tomb  where  Wayne  history  was  to  be 
made  and  buried  as  it  had  been  before. 

Maple  House  sheltered  a  mixed  brood.  J.  Y. 
Wayne,  seconded  by  Mrs.  J.  Y.,  was  the  head  of  the 
family.  Their  daughter,  Nance  Sterling,  and  her 
babies  represented  the  direct  line,  but  the  orphans,  Alan 
Wayne  and  Clematis  McAlpin,  were  on  an  equal  foot- 
ing as  children  of  the  house.  Alan  was  the  only  child 
of  J.  Y.  's  dead  brother.  Clematis  was  also  of  Wayne 
blood  but  so  intricately  removed  that  her  exact  rela- 
tion to  the  rest  of  the  tribe  was  never  figured  out  twice 
to  the  same  conclusion.  Old  Captain  Wayne,  retired 
from  the  regular  army,  was  an  uncle  in  a  different  de- 
gree to  every  generation  of  Waynes.  He  was  the  only 
man  on  Red  Hill  who  dared  call  for  a  whisky  and 
soda  when  he  wanted  it. 

When  Alan  reached  the  house  Mrs.  J.  Y.  was  in  her 
garden  across  the  road,  surveying  winter's  ruin,  and 
Nance  with  her  children  had  borne  the  Captain  off  to 
the  farm  to  see  that  oft-repeated  wonder  and  always 
welcome  forerunner  of  plenty,  the  quite  new  calf. 

Clematis  McAlpin,  shy  and  long-limbed,  just  at  the 
awkward  age  when  woman  misses  being  either  boy  or 
girl,  had  disappeared.  Where,  nobody  knew.  She 
might  be  bird's-nesting  in  the  swamp  or  crying  over 
the  "  Idylls  of  the  King  "  in  the  barn  loft.  Certainly 
she  was  not  in  the  house.  J.  Y.  Wayne  had  seen  to 


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that.  Stern  and  rugged  of  face  he  sat  in  the  library 
alone  and  waited  for  Alan.  He  heard  a  distant  screen- 
door  open  and  slam.  Steps  echoed  through  the  lonely 
house.  Alan  came  and  stood  before  him. 

Alan  was  a  man.  Without  being  tall,  he  looked 
tall.  His  shoulders  were  not  broad  till  you  noticed 
the  slimness  of  his  hips.  His  neck  looked  too  thin  till 
you  saw  the  strong  set  of  his  small  head.  In  a  word 
he  had  the  perfect  proportion  that  looks  frail  and  is 
strong.  As  he  stood  before  his  uncle,  his  eyes  grew 
dull.  They  were  slightly  blood-shot  in  the  corners 
and  with  their  dullness  the  clear-cut  lines  of  his  face 
seemed  to  take  on  a  perceptible  blur. 

J.  Y.  began  to  speak.  He  spoke  for  a  long  quarter 
of  an  hour  and  then  summed  up  all  he  had  said  in  a 
few  words.  "  I  've  been  no  uncle  to  you,  Alan,  I  've 
been  a  father.  I  've  tried  to  win  you  but  you  were  not 
to  be  won.  I  've  tried  to  hold  you  but  it  takes  more 
than  a  Wayne  to  hold  a  Wayne.  You  have  taken  the 
bit  with  a  vengeance.  You  have  left  such  a  wreckage 
behind  you  that  we  can  trace  your  life  back  to  the 
cradle  by  your  failures,  all  the  greater  for  your  many 
successes.  You  're  the  first  Wayne  that  ever  missed 
his  college  degree.  I  never  asked  what  they  expelled 
you  for  and  I  don't  want  to  know.  It  must  have  been 
bad,  bad,  for  the  old  school  is  lenient,  and  proud  of 
men  that  stand  as  high  as  you  stood  in  your  classes 
and  on  the  field.  Money  —  I  won't  talk  of  money, 
for  you  thought  it  was  your  own." 

For  the  first  time  Alan  spoke.  "What  do  you 
mean,  sir?"  With  the  words  his  slight  form 


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straightened,  his  eyes  blazed,  there  was  a  slight  quiver- 
ing of  the  thin  nostrils  and  his  features  came  out  clear 
and  strong. 

J.  Y.  dropped  his  eyes.  "  I  may  have  been  wrong, 
Alan,"  he  said  slowly,  "  but  I  've  been  your  banker 
without  telling  you.  Your  father  didn't  leave  much. 
It  saw  you  through  Junior  year." 

Alan  placed  his  hands  on  the  desk  between  them  and 
leaned  forward.  "  How  much  have  I  spent  since  then 
—  in  the  last  three  years  ?  " 

J.  Y.  kept  his  eyes  down.  "  You  know,  more  or 
less,  Alan.  We  won't  talk  about  that.  I  was  try- 
ing to  hold  you.  But  to-day  I  give  it  up.  I  've  got  one 
more  thing  to  tell  you,  though,  and  there  are  mighty 
few  people  that  know  it.  The  Hill's  battles  have  never 
entered  the  field  of  gossip.  Seven  years  before  you  were 
born,  my  father  —  your  grandfather  —  turned  me 
out.  It  was  from  this  room.  He  said  I  had  started 
the  name  of  Wayne  on  the  road  to  shame  and  that  I 
could  go  with  it.  He  gave  me  five  hundred  dollars. 
I  took  it  and  went.  I  sank  low  with  the  name  but  in 
the  end  I  brought  it  back  and  to-day  it  stands  high 
on  both  sides  of  the  water.  I  'm  not  a  happy  man, 
as  you  know,  for  all  that.  You  see,  though  I  brought 
the  name  back  in  the  end,  I  never  saw  your  grand- 
father again  and  he  never  knew. 

"  Here  are  five  hundred  dollars.  It 's  the  last 
money  you  '11  ever  have  from  me  but  whatever  you  do, 
whatever  happens,  remember  this:  Red  Hill  does  not 
belong  to  a  Lansing  nor  to  a  Wayne  nor  to  an  Elton. 
It  is  the  eternal  mother  of  us  all.  Broken  or  mended,. 


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Lansings  and  Waynes  have  come  back  to  the  Hill 
through  generations.  City  of  refuge  or  harbor  of 
peace,  it 's  all  one  to  the  Hill.  Remember  that." 

He  laid  the  crisp  notes  on  the  desk.  Alan  half 
turned  toward  the  door  but  stepped  back  again.  His 
eyes  and  face  were  dull  once  more.  He  picked  up 
the  bills  and  slowly  counted  them.  "  I  shall  return 
the  money,  sir,"  he  said  and  walked  out. 

He  went  to  the  stables  and  ordered  the  pony  and 
cart  for  the  afternoon  train.  As  he  came  out  he  saw 
Nance,  the  children  and  the  Captain  coming  slowly 
up  Long  Lane  from  the  farm.  He  dodged  back  into 
the  barn  through  the  orchard  and  across  the  lawn. 
Mrs.  J.  Y.  stood  in  the  garden  directing  the  relaying 
of  flower-beds.  Alan  made  a  circuit.  As  he  stepped 
into  the  road,  swift  steps  came  towards  him.  He 
wheeled  and  faced  Clem  coming  at  full  run.  He 
turned  his  back  on  her  and  started  away.  The  swift 
steps  stopped  so  suddenly  that  he  looked  around. 
Clem  was  standing  stock-still,  one  awkward  lanky  leg 
half  crooked  as  though  it  were  still  running.  Her 
skirts  were  absurdly  short.  Her  little  fists,  brown  and 
scratched,  pressed  her  sides.  Her  dark  hair  hung  in 
a  tangled  mat  over  a  thin,  pointed  face.  Her  eyes 
were  large  and  shadowy.  Two  tears  had  started  from 
them  and  were  crawling  down  soiled  cheeks.  She  was 
quivering  all  over  like  a  woman  struck. 

Alan  swung  around  and  strode  up  to  her.  He  put 
one  arm  about  her  thin  form  and  drew  her  to  him. 
"Don't  cry,  Clem,"  he  said,  "don't  cry.  I  didn't 
mean  to  hurt  you." 


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For  one  moment  she  clung  to  him  and  buried  her 
face  against  his  coat.  Then  she  looked  up  and  smiled 
through  wet  eyes.  "  Alan,  I  'm  so  glad  you  've  come !  " 

Alan  caught  her  hand  and  together  they  walked 
down  the  road  to  the  old  church.  The  great  door  was 
locked.  Alan  loosened  the  fastening  of  a  shutter, 
sprang  in  through  the  window  and  drew  Clem  after 
him.  They  climbed  to  the  belfry.  From  the  belfry 
one  saw  the  whole  world  with  Red  Hill  as  its  center. 
Alan  was  disappointed.  The  Hill  was  still  half  naked 
—  almost  bleak.  Maple  House  and  Elm  House  shone 
brazenly  white  through  budding  trees.  They  looked  as 
if  they  had  crawled  closer  to  the  road  during  the  win- 
ter. The  Firs,  with  its  black  border  of  last  year's 
foliage,  looked  funereal.  Alan  turned  from  the  scene 
but  Clem's  little  hand  drew  him,  back. 

Clematis  McAlpin  had  happened  between  genera- 
tions. Alan,  Nance,  Gerry  Lansing  and  their  friends 
had  been  too  old  for  her  and  Nance's  children  were 
too  young.  There  were  Elton  children  of  about  her 
age  but  for  years  they  had  been  abroad.  Consequently 
Clem  had  grown  to  fifteen  in  a  sort  of  loneliness  not 
uncommon  with  single  children  who  can  just  remember 
the  good  times  the  half-generation;  before  them  used 
to  have  by  reason  of  their  numbers.  This  loneliness 
had  given  her  in  certain  ways  a  precocious  develop- 
ment while  it  left  her  subdued  and  shy  even  when 
among  her  familiars.  But  she  was  shy  without  fear 
and  her  shyness  itself  had  a  flower-like  sweetness  that 
made  a  bold  appeal. 

"  Is  n't  it  wonderful,  Alan  ?  "   she  said.     "  Tester- 


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day  it  was  cold  and  it  rained  and  the  Hill  was  black, 
black,  like  The  Firs.  To-day  all  the  trees  ar-3  fuzzy 
with  green  and  it's  warm.  Yesterday  was  so  lonely 
and  to-day  you  are  here." 

Alan  looked  down  at  the  child  with  glowing  eyes. 

"  And  do  you  know,  this  summer  Gerry  Lansing 
and  Mrs.  Gerry  are  coming.  I've  never  seen  her  since 
that  day  they  were  married.  Do  you  think  it 's  all 
right  for  me  to  call  her  Mrs.  Gerry  like  everybody 
does?" 

Alan  considered  the  point  gravely.  'Yes,  I  think 
that 's  the  best  thing  you  could  call  her." 

"  Perhaps  when  I  'm  really  grown  up  I  can  call  her 
Alix.  I  think  Alix  is  such  a  pretty  name,  don't  you  \  " 

Clem  flashed  a  look  at  Alan  and  he  nodded;  then, 
with  an  impulsive  movement  she  drew  close  to  him  in 
the  half-wheedling  way  of  woman  about  to  ask  a  favor. 
"  Alan,  they  let  me  ride  old  Dubbs  when  he  is  n't  plow- 
ing. The  old  donkey  —  she 's  so  fat  now  she  can 
hardly  carry  the  babies.  Some  day  when  you  're  not 
in  a  great  hurry  will  you  let  me  ride  with  you  ?  " 

Alan  turned  away  briskly  and  started  down  the 
ladder.  "  Some  day,  perhaps,  Clem,"  he  muttered. 
"  Not  this  summer.  Come  on."  When  they  had  left 
the  church  he  drew  out  his  watch  and  started.  "  Run 
along  and  play,  Clem."  He  left  her  and  hurried  to 
the  barn. 

Joe  was  waiting.  "  Have  we  time  for  the  long  road, 
Joe  ? "  asked  Alan,  as  he  climbed  into  the  cart. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  especially  if  you  drive,  Mr.  Alan." 

"  I  don't  want  to  drive.     Let  him  go  and  jump  in." 


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The  coachman  gave  the  pony  his  head,  climbed  in 
and  took  the  reins.  The  cart  swung  out  and  down  the 
lane. 

"Alan!     Alan!" 

Alan  recognized  Clem's  voice  and  turned.  She  was 
racing  across  a  corner  of  the  pasture.  Her  short 
skirts  flounced  madly  above  her  ungainly  legs.  She 
tried  to  take  the  low  stone  wall  in  her  stride.  Her 
foot  caught  in  a  vine  and  she  pitched  headlong  into 
the  weeds  and  grass  at  the  roadside. 

Alan  leaped  from  the  cart  and  picked  her  up, 
quivering,  sobbing  and  breathless.  "Alan,"  she 
gasped,  "  you  're  not  going  away  ?  " 

Alan  half  shook  her  as  he  drew  her  thin  body  close 
to  him.  "  Clem,"  he  said,  "  you  must  n't.  Do  you 
hear?  You  mustn't.  Do  you  think  I  want  to  go 
away  ? " 

Clem  stifled  her  sobs  and  looked  up  at  him  with  a 
sudden  gravity  in  her  elfish  face.  She  threw  her  bare 
arms  around  his  neck.  "  Good-by,  Alan." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  III 

IF  Alix  Deering  had  not  barked  her  pretty  shins 
against  the  centerboard  in  Gerry  Lansing's  sailing 
boat  on  West  Lake  it  is  possible  that  she  would  in  the 
end  have  married  Alan  Wayne  instead  of  Gerry  Lan- 
sing. 

When  two  years  before  Alan's  dismissal  Nance  had 
brought  Alix,  an  old  school  friend,  to  Eed  Hill  for  a 
fortnight,  everybody  had  thought  what  a  splendid  match 
Alix  and  Alan  would  make.  But  it  happened  that 
Alan  was  very  much  taken  up  at  the  time  with  memory 
and  anticipation  of  a  certain  soubrette  and  before  he 
awoke  to  Alix's  wealth  of  charms  the  incident  of  the 
shins  robbed  him  of  opportunity. 

Gerry,  dressed  only  in  a  bathing  suit,  his  boat  run- 
ning free  before  a  brisk  breeze,  had  swerved  to  graze 
The  Point,  where  half  of  Eed  Hill  was  encamped, 
when  he  caught  sight  of  a  figure  lying  prone  on  the 
outermost  flat  rock.  He  took  it  to  be  Nance. 
"  Jump !  "  he  yelled  as  the  boat  neared  the  rock. 

The  figure  started,  scrambled  to  its  feet  and  sprang. 
It  was  Alix,  still  half  asleep,  that  landed  on  the  slightly 
canted  floor  of  the  boat.  Her  shins  brought  up  with  a 
thwack  against  the  centerboard  and  she  fell  in  a  heap 
at  Gerry's  feet.  Her  face  went  white  and  strained, 

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for  a  second  she  bit  her  lip  and  then,  "  I  must  cry," 
she  gasped,  —  and  cried. 

Gerry  was  big,  strong  and  placid.  Action  came 
slowly  to  him  but  when  it  came  it  was  sure.  He  threw 
one  knee  over  the  tiller  and  gathered  Alix  into  his  arms. 
She  lay  like  a  hurt  child,  sobbing  against  his  shoulder. 
"  Poor  little  girl,"  he  said,  "  I  know  how  it  hurts.  Cry 
now  because  in  a  minute  it  will  all  be  over.  It  will, 
dear.  Shins  are  like  that."  And  then,  before  she 
could  master  her  sobs  and  take  in  the  unconscious  humor 
of  his  comfort,  the  boat  struck  with  a  crash  on  Hidden 
Kock. 

The  nearest  Gerry  had  ever  come  to  drowning  was 
when  he  had  fallen  asleep  lying  on  his  back  in  the 
middle  of  West  Lake.  Even  with  a  frightened  girl 
clinging  to  him  it  gave  him  no  shock  to  find  himself 
in  the  water  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  shore.  But  with 
Alix  it  was  different.  She  gasped  and  in  consequence 
gulped  down  a  large  mouthful  of  the  Lake.  Then  she 
broke  into  hysterical  laughter  and  swallowed  some  more. 
Gerry  held  her  up  and  deliberately  slapped  her  across 
the  mouth.  In  a  flash  anger  sobered  her.  Her  eyes 
blazed.  "  You  coward,"  she  whispered. 

Gerry's  face  was  white  and  stern.  "  Put  one  hand 
on  my  shoulder  and  kick  with  your  feet,"  he  said. 
"  I  '11  tow  you  to  shore." 

"  Put  me  on  Hidden  Rock,"  said  Alix;  "  I  prefer  to 
wait  for  a  boat." 

"  It  will  take  an  hour  for  a  boat  to  get  here,"  an- 
swered Gerry.  "  I  'm  going  to  tow  you  in.  If  you  say 
another  word  I  shall  slap  you  again." 


20  HOME 

In  a  dead  silence  they  plowed  slowly  to  shore  and 
when  Gerry  found  bottom  he  stood  up,  took  Alix  into 
his  arms  and  strode  well  up  the  bank  before  he  set 
her  down. 

During  the  long  swim  she  had  had  time  to  think  but 
not  to  forgive.  She  stamped  her  sodden  feet,  shook  out 
her  skirts  and  then  looked  Gerry  up  and  down.  Gerry 
with  his  crisp  light  hair;  blue  eyes,  wide  apart  and 
well  open;  and  six  feet  of  well-proportioned  bulk,  was 
good  to  look  at  but  Alix's  angry  eyes  did  not  admit  it. 
They  measured  him  scornfully  but  it  was  not  the  look 
that  hurt  him  so  much  as  the  way  she  turned  from  him 
with  a  little  shrug  of  dismissal  and  started  along  the 
shore  for  camp. 

Gerry  reached  out  and  caught  hold  of  her  arm.  She 
swung  around,  her  face  quite  white.  "  I  see,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice.  "  You  want  it  now." 

Gerry  held  her  with  his  eyes.  "  Yes,"  he  answered, 
"  I  want  it  now." 

"  Why  did  you  yell  at  me  to  jump  into  your  horrible 
boat  ? " 

"  I  took  you  for  Nance." 

"  You  took  me  for  Nance,"  repeated  Alix  with  a 
mimicry  and  in  a  tone  that  left  no  doubt  as  to  the 
fact  that  she  was  in  a  nasty  temper. 

" And  why"  she  went  on,  her  eyes  blazing  and  her 
slight  figure  trembling,  "  did  you  strike  me  —  slap  me 
across  the  face  ?  " 

"  Because  I  love  you,"  replied  Gerry  steadily. 

"  Oh !  "  gasped  Alix.  Her  gray-slate  eyes  went  wide 
open  in  unfeigned  amazement  and  suddenly  the  "tense- 


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ness  that  is  the  essence  of  attack  went  out  of  her  body. 
Instead  of  a  self-possessed  and  very  angry  young  woman 
she  became  her  natural  self  —  a  girl  fluttering  before 
her  first  really  thrilling  situation. 

There  was  something  so  childlike  in  her  sudden  tran- 
sition that  Gerry  was  moved  out  of  himself.  For  once 
he  was  not  slow.  He  caught  hold  of  her  and  drew 
her  towards  him. 

But  Alix  was  not  to  be  plucked  like  a  ripe  plum. 
She  freed  herself  gently  but  firmly  and  stood  facing 
him.  Then  she  smiled  and  with  the  smile  she  gained 
the  upper  hand.  Gerry  suddenly  became  awkward  and 
painfully  conscious  of  his  bare  arms  and  legs.  He  felt 
exceptionally  naked. 

"  When  did  it  begin  ?  "  murmured  Alix. 

"  What  ?  "  said  Gerry. 

"  It,"  said  Alix.  "  When  —  how  long  have  you 
loved  me  ?  " 

Gerry's  face  turned  a  deep  red  but  he  raised  his  eyes 
steadily  to  hers.  "  It  began,"  he  said  simply,  "  when 
I  took  you  in  my  arms  and  you  laid  your  face  against 
my  shoulder  and  cried  like  —  like  a  little  kid." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Alix  again  and  blushed  in  her  turn. 
She  had  lost  the  upper  hand  and  knew  it.  Gerry's 
arms  went  around  her  and  this  time  she  raised  her  face 
and  let  him  kiss  her. 

"  Now,"  she  said  as  they  started  for  the  camp,  "  I 
suppose  I  must  call  you  Gerry." 

"  Yes/'  said  Gerry  solemnly.  "  And  I  shall  call  you 
Little  Miss  Oh !  " 

So  casual  an  engagement  might  easily  have  come  to 


22  HOME 

a  casual  end  but  Gerry  Lansing  was  quietly  tenacious. 
Once  moved  he  stayed  moved.  No  woman  had  ever 
stirred  him  before;  he  did  not  imagine  that  any  other 
woman  would  ever  stir  him  again. 

To  Alix,  once  the  shock  of  finding  herself  engaged 
was  passed,  came  full  realization  and  a  certain  amount 
of  level-headed  calculation.  She  knew  herself  to  be 
high-strung,  nervous  and  impulsive,  a  combination  that 
led  people  to  consider  her  flighty.  On  the  day  of  the 
wreck  Gerry  had  shown  himself  to  be  a  man  full  grown. 
He  had  mastered  her;  she  thought  he  could  hold  her. 

Then  came  calculation.  Alix  was  out  of  the  West. 
All  that  money  could  do  for  her  in  the  way  of  education 
and  culture  had  been  done  but  no  one  knew  better  than 
she  that  her  culture  was  a  mere  veneer  in  comparison 
with  the  ingrained  flower  of  the  Lansings'  family  oak. 
Here  was  a  man  she  could  love  and  with  him  he  brought 
her  the  old  homestead  on  Red  Hill  and  an  older  brown 
stone  front  in  New  York  whose  position  was  as  awkward 
as  it  was  socially  unassailable.  Alix  reflected  that  if 
there  was  a  fool  to  the  bargain  it  was  not  she. 

All  Red  Hill  and  a  few  Deerings  gathered  for  the 
wedding  and  many  were  the  remarks  passed  on  Gerry's 
handsome  bulk  and  Alix's  scintillating  beauty  but  the 
only  saying  that  went  down  in  history  came  from  Alan 
Wayne  when  Nance,  just  a  little  troubled  over  the 
combination  of  Gerry  and  Alix,  asked  him  what  he 
thought  of  it. 

Alan's  eyes  narrowed  and  his  thin  lips  curved  into 
a  smile  as  he  gave  his  verdict :  "  Andromeda,  consenting, 
chained  to  the  rock." 


CHAPTER  IV 

TO  the  surprise  of  his  friends  Alan  Wayne  gave  up 
debauch  and  found  himself  employment  by  the 
time  the  spring  that  saw  his  dismissal  from  Maple  House 
had  ripened  into  summer.  He  was  full  of  preparation 
for  his  departure  for  Africa  when  a  summons  from  old 
Captain  Wayne  reached  him. 

With  equal  horror  of  putting  up  at  hotels  or  relatives* 
houses,  the  Captain  upon  his  arrival  in  town  had  gone 
straight  to  his  club  and  forthwith  become  the  sensation 
of  the  club's  windows.  Old  members  felt  young  when 
they  caught  sight  of  him  as  though  they  had  come 
suddenly  on  a  vanished  landmark  restored.  Passing 
gamins  gazed  on  his  short-cropped  gray  hair,  staring 
eyes,  flaring  collar,  black  string  tie  and  flowing  broad- 
cloth and  remarked,  "  Gee,  look  at  de  old  spoit  in  de 
winder !  " 

Alan  heard  the  remark  as  he  entered  the  club  and 
smiled. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  " 

"Huh!"  grunted  the  Captain.  "Sit  down."  He 
ordered  a  drink  for  his  guest  and  another  for  himself. 
He  glared  at  the  waiter.  He  glared  at  a  callow  youth 
who  had  come  up  and  was  looking  with  speculative  eye 
at  a  neighboring  chair.  The  waiter  retired  almost  pre- 
cipitously. The  youth  followed. 

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24  HOME 

"  In  my  time,"  remarked  the  Captain,  "  a  club  was 
for  privacy.  Now  it's  a  haven  for  bell-boys  and  a 
playground  for  whippersiiappers." 

"  They  Ve  made  me  a  member,  sir." 

"  Have,  eh !  "  growled  the  Captain  and  glared  at  his 
nephew.  Alan  took  inspection  coolly,  a  faint  smile  on 
his  thin  face.  The  Captain  turned  away  his  bulging 
eyes,  crossed  and  uncrossed  his  legs  and  finally  spoke. 
"  I  was  just  going  to  say  when  you  interrupted,"  he  be- 
gan, "  that  engineering  is  a  dirty  job.  ~Not,  however," 
he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "  dirtier  than  most.  It  's 
a  profession  but  not  a  career." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Alan.  "  They  've  got  a 
few  in  the  Army  and  they  seem  to  be  doing  pretty 
well." 

"  Huh,  the  Army !  "  said  the  Captain.  He  sub- 
sided, and  made  a  new  start.  "  What 's  your  appoint- 
ment ?  " 

"  It  does  n't  amount  to  an  appointment.  Just  a  job 
as  assistant  to  Walton,  the  engineer  the  contractors  are 
sending  ou.t.  We  're  going  to  put  up  a  bridge  some- 
where in  Africa." 

"  That 's  it.     I  knew  it,"  said  the  Captain.     "  Going 
away.     Want  any  money  ?  " 

The  question  came  like  solid  shot  out  of  a  four- 
pounder.  Alan  started,  colored  and  smiled,  all  at  the 
same  time. 

"  No  thanks,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  I  Ve  got  all  I  need." 

The  Captain  hitched  his  chair  forward,  placed  his 
hands  on  his  knees,  leaned  forward  and  glared  out  on 
the  Avenue.  "  The  Lansings,"  he  began,  like  a  boy 


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reciting  a  piece,  "  are  devils  for  drink,  the  Waynes  for 
women.  Don't  you  ever  let  'em  worry  you  about  drink. 
Nowadays  the  doctors  call  us  non-alcoholic.  In  my 
time  it  was  just  plain  strong  heads  for  wine.  I  say, 
don't  worry  about  drink.  There 's  a  safety  valve  in 
every  Wayne's  gullet. 

"  But  women,  Alan !  "  The  Captain  slued  around 
his  bulging  eyes.  "  You  look  out  for  them.  As  your 
greatgrandfather  used  to  say,  '  To  women,  only  perish- 
able goods  —  sweets,  flowers  and  kisses.'  And  you  take 
it  from  me,  kisses  aren't  always  the  cheapest.  They 
say  God  made  everything  —  down  to  little  apples  and 
Jersey  lightning.  But  when  he  made  women  the  devil 
helped."  The  Captain's  nervousness  dropped  from 
him  as  he  deliberately  drew  out  his  watch  and  fob. 
"  Good  thing  he  did  too,"  he  added,  as  a  pleasing  after- 
thought. He  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  A  complacent 
look  came  over  his  face. 

Alan  got  up  to  say  good-by.  The  Captain  rose  too 
and  clasped  the  hand  Alan  held  out.  "  One  more 
thing,"  he  said.  "  Don't  forget  there 's  always  a 
Wayne  to  back  a  Wayne  for  good  or  bad."  There  was 
a  suspicion  of  moisture  in  his  eye  as  he  hurried  his 
guest  off. 

Back  in  his  rooms  Alan  found  letters  awaiting  him. 
He  read  them  and  tore  them  up  —  all  but  one.  It  was 
from  Clem.  "  Dear  Alan,"  she  wrote,  "  Nance  says 
you  are  going  very  far  away.  I  am  sorry.  It  has  been 
raining  here  very  much.  In  the  hollows  all  the  bridges 
are  under  water.  I  have  invented  a  new  game.  It  is 
called  '  steamboat.'  I  play  it  on  old  Dubbs.  We  go 


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down  into  the  valley  and  I  make  him  go  through  the 
water  around  the  bridges.  He  puffs  just  like  a  steam- 
boat and  when  he  gets  out  he  smokes  all  over.  He  is 
too  fat.  I  hope  you  will  come  back  very  soon. 
Clem." 

That  evening  Clem  was  thrown  into  a  transport  by 
receiving  her  first  telegram.  It  read,  "  You  must  not 
play  steamboat  again,  it  is  dangerous.  Alan."  She 
tucked  it  in  her  bosom  and  rushed  over  to  The  Firs  to 
show  it  to  Gerry. 

Gerry  and  Alix  were  spending  the  summer  at  The 
Firs  where  Mrs.  Lansing,  Gerry's  widowed  mother, 
was  still  nominally  the  hostess.  They  had  been  married 
two  years  but  people  still  spoke  of  Alix  as  Gerry's  bride 
and  in  so  doing  stamped  her  with  her  own  seal.  To 
strangers  they  carried  the  air  of  a  couple  about  to  be 
married  at  the  rational  close  of  a  long  engagement. 
No  children  or  thought  of  children  had  come  to  turn  the 
channel  of  life  for  Alix.  On  Gerry,  marriage  sat  as 
an  added  habit.  It  was  beginning  to  look  as  though  he 
and  Alix  drifted  together  not  because  they  were  carried 
by  the  same  currents  but  because  they  were  tied. 

Where  duller  minds  would  have  dubbed  Gerry  the 
Ox,  Alan  had  named  him  the  Rock,  and  Alan  was  right. 
Gerry  had  a  dignity  beyond  mere  bulk.  He  had  all 
the  powers  of  resistance,  none  of  articulation.  Where 
a  pin-prick  would  start  an  ox  it  took  an  upheaval  to 
move  Gerry.  An  upheaval  was  on  the  way  but  Gerry 
did  not  know  it.  It  was  yet  afar  off. 

To  the  Lansings  marriage  had  always  been  one  of  the 
regular  functions  of  a  regulated  life  —  part  of  the  gen- 


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eral  scheme  of  things.  Gerry  was  slowly  realizing 
that  his  marriage  with  Alix  was  far  from  a  mere  func- 
tion, had  little  to  do  with  a  regular  life  and  was  foreign 
to  what  he  had  always  considered  the  general  scheme 
of  things.  Alix  had  developed,  quite  naturally,  into  a 
social  butterfly.  Gerry  did  not  picture  her  as  chain 
lightning  playing  on  a  rock  as  Alan  would  have  done, 
but  he  did,  in  a  vague  way,  feel  that  bits  of  his  impas- 
sive self  were  being  chipped  away. 

Red  Hill  bored  Alix  and  she  showed  it.  The  first 
summer  after  the  marriage  they  had  spent  abroad. 
Now  Alix's  thoughts  and  talk  turned  constantly  toward 
Europe.  She  even  suggested  a  flying  trip  for  the  fall 
but  Gerry  refused  to  be  dragged  so  far  from  golf  and 
his  club.  He  stuck  doggedly  to  Red  Hill  till  the  leaves 
began  to  turn  and  then  consented  to  move  back  to  town. 

On  their  last  night  at  The  Firs  Mrs.  Lansing,  who 
was  complimentary  Aunt  Jane  to  Waynes  and  Eltons, 
entertained  Red  Hill  as  a  whole  to  dinner.  With  the 
arrival  of  dessert  to  Alix's  surprise  Nance  said,  "  Port 
all  around,  please,  Aunt  Jane." 

Lansings,  Waynes  and  Eltons  were  heavy  drinkers  in 
town  but  it  was  a  tradition,  as  Alix  knew,  that  on  Red 
Hill  they  dropped  it  —  all  but  the  old  Captain.  It  was 
as  though,  amid  the  scenes  of  their  childhood,  they  be- 
came children  and  just  as  a  Frenchman  of  the  old  school 
will  not  light  a  cigarette  in  the  presence  of  his  father 
so  they  would  not  take  a  drink  for  drink's  sake  on  Red 
Hill. 

So  Alix  looked  on  interestedly  as  the  old  butler  set 
glasses  and  started  the  port.  When  it  had  gone  the 


28  HOME 

round  Nance  stood  up  and  with  her  hands  on  the  table's 
edge,  leaned  towards  them  all.  For  a  Wayne,  she  was 
very  fair.  As  they  looked  at  her  the  color  swept  up 
over  her  bare  neck.  Its  wave  reached  her  temples  and 
seemed  to  stir  the  clustering  tendrils  of  her  hair.  Her 
eyes  were  grave  and  bright  with  moisture.  Her  lips 
were  tremulous.  "  We  drink  to  Alan,"  she  said,  "  to- 
day is  Alan's  birthday." 

She  sat  down.  They  all  raised  their  glasses.  Little 
Clem  had  no  wina  She  put  a  thin  hand  on  Gerry's 
arm. 

"  Please,  Gerry,  please !  " 

Gerry  held  down  his  glass.  Clematis  dipped  in  the 
tip  of  her  little  finger  and  as  they  all  drank,  gravely 
carried  the  drop  of  wine  to  her  lips. 


CHAPTER  V 

AS  Judge  Healey,  gray-haired  but  erect,  walked  up 
the  Avenue  his  keen  glance  fell  on  Gerry  Lan- 
sing standing  across  the  street  before  an  art  dealer's 
window.  Gerry's  eyes  were  fastened  on  a  picture  that 
he  had  long  had  in  mind  for  a  certain  nook  in  the 
library  of  the  town  house. 

It  was  the  second  anniversary  of  his  wedding  and 
though  it  was  already  late  in  the  afternoon  Gerry  had 
not  yet  chosen  his  gift  for  Alix.  He  turned  from  the 
picture  with  a  last  long  look  and  a  shrug  and  passed 
on  to  a  palatial  jeweler's  further  up  the  street. 

For  many  years  Judge  Healey  had  been  foster- 
father  to  Red  Hill  in  general  and  to  Gerry  in  particular. 
With  almost  womanly  intuition  he  read  what  was  in 
Gerry's  mind  before  the  picture  and  acting  on  impulse 
the  Judge  crossed  the  street  and  bought  it. 

While  the  Judge  was  still  in  the  picture  shop  Gerry 
came  out  of  the  jeweler's  and  started  briskly  for  home. 
He  had  purchased  a  pendant  of  brilliants,  extravagant 
for  his  purse  but  yet  saved  to  good  taste  by  a  simple 
originality  in  design. 

He  waited  until  the  dinner  hour  and  then  slipped  his 
gift  into  Alix's  hand  as  they  walked  down  the  stairs  to- 
gether. She  stopped  beneath  the  hall  light.  "  I  can't 

wait  dear,  I  simply  can't."     She  snapped  open  the  case. 

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30  HOME 

"  Oh !  "  she  gasped.  "  How  dear !  How  perfectly 
dear !  You  old  sweetheart !  "  She  threw  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  kissed  him  twice.  Then  she  flew 
away  to  the  drawing-room  in  search  of  Mrs.  Lansing 
and  the  Judge,  the  sole  guests  to  the  little  anniversary 
dinner.  Gerry  straightened  his  tie  and  followed. 

Alix's  tongue  was  rippling  —  her  whole  hody  was  rip- 
pling—  with  excitement  and  pleasure.  She  dangled 
her  treasure  before  their  eyes.  She  laid  it  against  her 
warm  neck  »nd  ran  to  a  mirror.  The  light  in  her  eyes 
matched  the  light  in  the  stones.  The  Judge  took  the 
jewel  and  laid  it  in  the  palm  of  his  strong  hand.  It 
looked  in  danger  of  being  crushed.  "  A  beautiful 
thing,  Gerry,"  he  said,  "  and  well  chosen.  Some  poet 
jeweler  dreamed  that  twining  design  and  set  the  stones 
while  the  dew  was  still  on  the  grass." 

After  dinner  the  four  gathered  in  the  library  but  they 
were  hardly  seated  when  Alix  sprang  up.  Her  glance 
had  followed  Gerry's  startled  gaze.  He  was  staring  at 
the  coveted  picture  he  had  been  looking  at  in  the  gallery 
that  afternoon.  It  hung  in  the  niche  in  which  his 
thoughts  had  placed  it.  Alix  took  her  stand  before  it. 
She  glanced  inquiringly  at  the  others.  Mrs.  Lansing 
nodded  at  the  Judge.  Alix  turned  back  to  the  picture 
and  gravity  stole  into  her  face.  Then  she  faced  the 
Judge  with  a  smile. 

"  We  live,"  she  said,  "  in  a  Philistine  age,  don't  we  ? 
But  I  've  never  let  my  Philistinism  drive  pictures  from 
their  right  place  in  the  heart.  Pictures  in  art  galleries 
—  "  she  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders  —  "I  have  not 
been  trained  up  to  them.  To  me,  they  are  mounted 


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butterflies  in  a  museum,  cut  flowers  crowded  at  the 
florist's.  But  this  picture  and  that  nook  —  they  have 
waited  for  each  other.  You  see  the  picture  nestling 
down  for  a  long  rest  and  it  seems  a  small  thing  and 
then  it  catches  your  eye  and  holds  it  and  you  see  that 
it  is  a  little  door  that  opens  on  a  wide  world.  It  has 
slipped  into  the  room  and  become  a  part  of  life." 

A  strange  stillness  followed  on  Alix's  words.  To  the 
Judge  and  to  Gerry  it  was  as  though  the  picture  had 
opened  a  window  to  her  mind.  Then  she  closed  the 
window.  "  Come,  Gerry,"  she  said,  turning.  "  Make 
your  bow  to  the  Judge  and  bark." 

Gerry  was  excited  though  he  did  not  show  it.  "  You 
have  dressed  my  thoughts  in  words  I  can't  equal,"  he 
said  and  strolled  out  on  to  the  little  veranda  at  the  back 
of  the  house.  He  wanted  to  be  alone  for  a  moment  and 
think  over  this  flash  of  light  that  had  followed  a  dark 
day.  For  the  first  time  in  a  long  while  Alix  had 
revealed  herself.  He  did  not  begrudge  the  Judge  his 
triumph.  He  knew  instinctively  that  coming  from  him 
instead  of  from  the  Judge  the  picture  would  not  have 
struck  that  intimate  spark. 

The  next  day  Gerry  gave  his  consent  to  Alix's  plan 
for  a  flying  trip  abroad  but  with  a  reservation.  The 
reservation  was  that  she  should  join  some  party  and 
leave  him  behind. 

Judge  Healey  heard  of  this  arrangement  only  when  it 
was  on  the  point  of  being  put  into  effect.  In  fact 
he  was  only  just  in  time  at  the  steamer  to  wave  good- 
by  to  Alix.  Leaning  over  the  rail,  with  her  high  color, 
moist  red  lips  and  big  excited  eyes  making  play  under 


32  HOME 

a  golden  crown  of  hair  and  over  a  huge  armful  of  roses, 
Alix  presented  a  picture  not  easily  forgotten. 

The  Judge  turned  to  Gerry.  "  She  ought  not  to  be 
going  without  you,  my  boy." 

"  Oh,  it 's  all  right,"  said  Gerry  lightly.  "  She  's 
well  chaperoned.  It 's  a  big  party,  you  know." 

But  during  the  weeks  that  followed  the  Judge  saw 
it  was  not  all  right.  Gerry  had  less  and  less  time  for 
golf  and  more  and  more  for  whiskys  and  sodas.  The 
Judge  was  troubled  and  felt  a  sort  of  relief  when  from 
far  away  Alan  Wayne  cropped  into  his  affairs  and  gave 
him  something  else  to  think  about. 

When  Angus  McDale  of  McDale  &  McDale  called 
without  appointment  the  Judge  knew  at  once  that  he 
was  going  to  hear  something  about  Alan. 

"  Lucky  to  find  you  in,"  puffed  McDale.  "  It  is  n't 
business  exactly  or  I  'd  have  'phoned.  I  was  just  pass- 
ing by." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ? "  asked  the  Judge,  offering  his 
visitor  a  fresh  cigar. 

"  It 's  this.  That  boy,  Alan  Wayne  —  sort  of  pro- 
tege of  yours,  is  n't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  in  a  way  —  yes,"  said  the  Judge  slowly, 
frowning.  "  What  has  Alan  done  now  ?  " 

"  It 's  like  this,"  said  McDale.  "  Six  months  ago  we 
sent  Mr.  Wayne  out  on  contract  as  assistant  to  Walton. 
Walton  no  sooner  got  on  the  ground  than  he  fell  sick. 
He  put  Wayne  in  charge  and  then  he  died.  Now  this 
is  the  point.  Mr.  Wayne  seems  to  have  promoted  him- 
self to  Walton's  pay.  He  had  the  cheek  to  draw  his 
own  as  well.  He  won't  be  here  for  weeks  but  his  ac- 


HOME  33 

counts  came  in  to-day.  I  want  to  know  if  you  see  any 
reason  why  we  should  n't  have  that  money  back,  to  say 
the  least." 

The  Judge's  face  cleared.  "  Did  n't  he  tell  you  why 
he  drew  Walton's  pay  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word.  Said  he  'd  explain  accounts  when 
he  got  here  but  that  sort  of  thing  takes  a  lot  of  explain- 
ing." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Judge,  "  I  can  tell  you.  Walton's 
pay  went  to  his  widow  through  ma  I  Ve  been  doing 
some  puzzling  on  this  case  already.  !N"ow  will  you  tell 
me  how  Alan  got  the  money  without  drawing  on  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there  was  plenty  of  money  lying  around.  The 
job  cost  ten  per  cent,  less  than  Walton's  estimate.  If 
he  'd  come  back  we  'd  have  hauled  him  over  the  coals 
for  that  blunder.  There  was  the  usual  reserve  for  work 
in  inaccessible  regions  and  then  the  people  we  did  the 
job  for  paid  ten  days'  bonus  for  finishing  that  much 
ahead  of  contract  time." 

The  Judge  mused.  "  Was  the  job  satisfactory  to  the 
people  out  there  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  it  was-,"  said  McDale  bluntly.  "  Most  satis- 
factory. But  there  was  a  funny  thing  there  too.  They 
wrote  that  while  they  did  not  approve  of  Mr.  Wayne's 
time-saving  methods,  the  finished  work  had  their  ab- 
solute acceptance." 

The  Judge  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  You  want 
my  advice  ? " 

"  Yes,  not  for  our  own  sake  but  for  Wayne's." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Judge,  "  I  'm  going  to  give  it  to 
you  for  your  sake.  When  you  stumble  across  a  boy 


34  HOME 

that  can  cut  ten  per  cent,  off  the  working  and  time 
estimates  of  an  old  hand  like  Walton,  you  bind  him  to 
you  with  a  long  contract  at  any  salary  he  wants.  And 
just  one  thing  more:  when  Alan  Wayne  steals  a  cent 
from  you  or  fifty  thousand  dollars  you;  come  to  me  and 
I  '11  pay  it." 

McDale's  eyes  narrowed  and  he  puffed  nervously  at 
his  cigar.  He  got  up  to  take  his  leave.  "  Judge,"  he 
said,  "  your  head  is  on  right  and  your  heart's  in  the 
right  place,  as  well.  I  begin  to  see  that  widow  business. 
Wayne  sized  us  up  for  a  hard-headed  firm  when  it  comes 
to  paying  out  what  we  don't  have  to  and  we  are.  It 
was  n't  law  but  he  was  right.  Walton's  work  was  done 
just  as  if  he  'd  been  alive.  Even  a  Scotchman  can  see 
that.  You  need  n't  worry.  A  man  tliat  you  '11  back 
for  fifty  thousand  is  good  enough  for  McDale  & 
McDale." 


CHAPTEE  VI 

IT  was  Alix  that  discovered  Alan  as  the  Elenic 
steamed  slowly  down  the  Solent.  He  was  already 
comfortably  established  in  his  chair  with  a  small  pile 
of  fiction  beside  him. 

She  paused  before  she  approached  him.  Alan  had 
always  interested  her.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  had 
kept  himself  at  a  distance  but  then  he  had  a  way  of 
keeping  his  distance  from  almost  everybody.  Alix  had 
thought  of  him  heretofore  as  a  modern  exquisite  subject 
to  atavic  fits  that,  in  times  past,  had  led  him  into  more 
than  one  barbarous  escapade.  It  was  the  flare  of  daring 
in  these  shameful  outbursts  that  had  saved  him  from 
a  suspicion  of  effeminacy.  Now  in  London  she  had  by 
chance  heard  things  of  him  that  forced  her  to  a  readjust- 
ment of  her  estimate.  In  six  months  Alan  had  turned 
himself  into  a  mystery. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  coming  up  behind  him,  "  how  are 
you?" 

Alan  turned  his  head  slowly  and  then  threw  off  his 
rugs  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  The  sky  is  clear,"  he  said,  "  where  did  you  drop 
from  ?  "  His  eyes  measured  her.  She  was  ravishing 
in  a  fur  toque  and  coat  which  had  yet  to  receive  their 
baptism  of  import  duty. 

"  Oh,"  said  Alix,  "  my  presence  is  humdrum.     Just 

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36  HOME 

the  usual  returning  from  six  weeks  abroad.  But  you! 
You  come  from  the  haunts  of  wild  beasts  and  from  all 
accounts  you  have  been  one." 

"  Been  one !  From  all  accounts !  "  exclaimed  Alan, 
a  puzzled  frown  on  his  face.  "  Just  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

They  started  walking.  "  I  mean  that  even  in  Africa 
one  can't  hide  from  Piccadilly.  In  Piccadilly  you  are 
already  known.  Not  as  Mr.  Alan  Wayne,  a  New  York 
social  satellite,  but  as  a  whirlwind  in  shirt  sleeves.  Ten 
Percent  Wayne,  in  short."  She  looked  at  him  with 
teasing  archness.  She  could  see  that  he  was  worried. 

"  Satellite  is  rather  rough,"  remarked  Alan.  "  I 
never  was  that." 

"  All  bachelors  are  satellites  in  the  nature  of  things 
—  satellites  to  other  men's  wives." 

"  Have  you  a  vacancy  ?  "  said  Alan. 

The  turn  of  the  talk  put  Alix  in  her  element.  She 
had  never  been  an  ingenue.  She  had  been  born  with 
an  intuitive  defense.  Finesse  was  her  motto  and 
artificiality  was  her  foil.  It  had  never  been  struck  from 
her  hands.  On  the  other  hand  Alan  knew  that  every 
woman  who  accepts  battle  can  be  reached  even  if  not 
conquered.  It  is  the  approaches  to  her  heart  that  a 
woman  must  defend.  Once  those  are  passed,  the  citadel 
turns  traitor. 

They  both  knew  they  were  embarking  upon  a  danger- 
ous game,  but  Alix  had  played  it  often.  No  pretty 
woman  takes  her  European  degree  without  ample  oc- 
casion for  practice  and  Alix  had  been  through  the 
European  mill.  'She  threw  out  her  daintily  shod  feet 


HOME  37 

as  she  walked.  She  was  full  of  life.  She  felt  like 
skipping.  The  light  of  battle  danced  merrily  in  her 
eyes.  She  made  no  other  reply. 

"  I  met  lots  of  people  we  both  know,"  she  said,  at 
last. 

"  Which  one  of  them  passed  on  the  news  that  I  had 
taken  to  the  ways  of  a  wild  beast  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  was  the  Honorable  Percy.  I  only  caught 
a  few  words.  He  was  telling  about  a  man  known  as 
Ten  Percent  Wayne  and  the  only  time  he  'd  ever  seen 
the  shirt-sleeve  policy  work  with  natives.  When  I 
learned  it  was  Africa,  I  linked  up  with  you  at  once 
and  screamed  and  he  turned  to  me  and  said,  l  You 
know  Mr.  Wayne?'  And  I  said  I  had  thought  I  did 
but  I  found  I  only  knew  him  tire  a  quatre  epingles  and 
would  n't  he  draw  his  picture  over  again.  But  just  then 
Lady  Merle  signaled  the  retreat,  and  when  the  men  came 
out  somebody  else  snaffled  Collingeford  before  I  got 
a  chance." 

"  Oh,  Collingeford,"  said  Alan.  "  I  remember." 
He  frowned  and  was  silent. 

"  Alan,"  said  Alix  after  a  moment,  "  let  me  warn 
you.  I  see  a  new  tendency  in  you  but  before  it  goes  any 
farther  than  a  tendency  let  me  tell  you  that  a  thought- 
ful man  is  a  most  awful  bore.  When  I  caught  sight  of 
you  I  thought,  '  What  a  delightful  little  party,'  but  if 
you  're  going  to  be  pensive  there  are  others  —  " 

Alan  glanced  at  her.  "  Alix,"  he  said,  mimicking 
her  tone,  "  I  see  in  you  the  makings  of  an  altogether 
charming  woman.  I  'm  not  speaking  of  the  painstak- 
ing veneer  —  I  suppose  you  need  that  in  your  walk  of 


38  HOME 

life  —  but  what 's  under  it.  There  may  be  others,  as 
you  say.  Pretty  women  have  taken  to  wearing  men  for 
bangles.  But  don't  you  make  a  mistake.  I  'm  not  a  ' 
bangle.  I  've  just  come  from  the  unclothed  world  of 
real  things.  To  me  a  man  is  just  a  man  and,  what 's 
more,  a  woman  is  just  a  woman." 

"  How  un-American,"  said  Alix. 

"  It 's  more  than  that,"  said  Alan,  "  it 's  pre- Ameri- 
can." 

Alix  was  thoughtful  in  her  turn.  Alan  caught  her 
by  the  arm  and  turned  her  toward  the  west.  A  yawl 
was  just  crossing  the  disk  of  the  disappearing  sun. 
Alix  felt  a  thrill  at  his  touch.  "  It 's  a  sweet  little  pic- 
ture, is  n't  it  ?  "  she  said.  "  But  you  must  n't  touch 
me,  Alan.  It  can't  be  good  for  us." 

"  So  you  feel  it  too,"  said  Alan,  and  took  his  hand 
from  her  arm. 

During  the  voyage  they  were  much  together,  not  in 
dark  corners  but  waging  their  battle  in  the  open  —  two 
swimmers  that  fought  each  other,  forgetting  to  fight  the 
tide  that  was  bearing  them  out  to  sea.  Alan  was  not 
a  philanderer  to  snatch  an  unrequited  kiss.  To  him  a 
kiss  was  the  seal  on  surrender.  But  to  Alix  the  game 
was  its  own  goal.  As  she  had  always  played  it,  nobody 
had  ever  really  won  anything.  However,  it  did  not 
take  her  long  to  appreciate  that  in  Alan  she  had  an 
opponent  who  was  constantly  getting  under  her  guard 
and  making  her  feel  things, —  things  that  were  alarm- 
ing in  themselves  like  the  jump  of  one's  heart  into  the 
throat  or  the  intoxication  that  goes  with  hot,  racing 
blood. 


HOME  39 

Alan's  power  over  women  was  in  voice  and  words. 
If  he  had  been  hideous  it  would  have  been  the  same. 
With  his  tongue  he  carried  Alix  away  and  gave  her 
that  sense  of  isolation  which  lulls  a  woman  into  laxity. 
One  night  as  they  sat  side  by  side,  a  single  great  rug 
across  their  knees,  Alan  laid  his  hand  under  cover  on 
hers.  A  quiver  went  through  Alix's  body.  Her  closed 
hand  stirred  nervously  but  she  did  not  really  draw  it 
away.  "  Alan,"  she  said,  "  I  've  told  you  not  to ! 
Please  don't.  It 's  common  —  this  sort  of  thing." 

Alan  tightened  his  grip.  "  You  say  it 's  common," 
he  said,  "  because  you  've  never  thought  it  out.  Light- 
ning was  common  till  somebody  thought  it  out.  I  sit 
beside  you  without  touching  you  and  we  are  in  two 
worlds.  I  grip  your  hand  —  like  this  —  and  the  abyss 
between  us  is  closed.  While  I  hold  you  nothing  can 
come  between." 

Alix's  hand  opened  and  settled  into  his.  Alan  went 
on.  "  Words  talk  to  the  mind  but  through  my  hand  my 
body  talks  to  yours  in  a  language  that  was  old  before 
words  were  born.  If  I  am  full  of  dreams  of  you  and  a 
desert  island,  I  don't  have  to  tell  you  about  it  because 
you  are  with  me.  The  things  I  want,  you  want.  There 
are  no  other  things  in  life, —  for  while  I  hold  you  our 
world  is  one  and  it  is  all  ours.  Nothing  else  can  reach 
us." 

"  For  a  while  they  sat  silent,  then  Alix  recovered  her- 
self. "  After  all,"  she  said,  "  we  're  not  on  a  desert 
island  but  on  a  ship  with  eyes  in  every  corner." 

Alan  leaned  toward  her.  "  But  if  we  were,  Alix !  If 
we  were  on  a  desert  island  —  you  and  I  — " 


40  HOME 

For  a  moment  Alix  looked  into  his  burning  eyes.  She 
felt  that  there  was  fire  in  her  own  eyes,  too, —  a  fire  she 
could  not  altogether  control.  She  disengaged  herself 
and  sprang  up.  Alan  rose  slowly  and  stood  beside  her. 
He  did  not  look  at  her  parted  lips  and  hot  cheeks; 
he  had  suddenly  become  languid.  "  That 's  it,"  he 
drawled,  "  eyes  in  every  corner.  I  wonder  how  many 
morals  would  stand  without  other  people's  eyes  to  prop 
them  up  ? " 

Alix  left  him.  She  felt  baffled,  as  though  she  had 
tried  desperately  to  get  a  grip  on  Alan  and  her  hand 
had  slipped.  She  felt  vaguely  that  it  was  essential  to 
her  to  get  a  grip  on  him.  She  had  never  played  the  loa- 
ing  side  before  and  she  was  troubled. 

But  with  the  frank  light  of  morning  her  troubles 
melted  into  nothing  and  she  summoned  Alan  to  her  side 
whenever  the  whim  came  to  her.  Alix's  party  looked 
on,  amused.  "  It 's  all  right,"  said  a  good-natured 
matron,  "  they  're  cousins." 

"  So  he  's  a  cousin,  is  he  ?  "  remarked  a  discarded 
bangle,  and  added  cynically,  "  what  a  point  d'appui !  " 

Premonition  does  not  come  to  a  woman  without  cause. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  voyage  Alix  faced,  wide-eyed, 
the  revelation  that  the  stakes  of  the  game  she  and  Alan 
had  played  were  body  and  soul.  "  Alan,"  she  said  one 
night  with  drooping  head,  "  I  've  had  enough.  I  don't 
want  to  play  any  more.  I  want  to  quit."  She  lifted 
tear-filled  eyes  to  him.  The  foil  of  artificiality  had  been 
knocked  from  her  hand.  She  was  all  woman  and  de- 
fenseless. 

Alan  felt  a  trembling  in  all  his  limbs.     "  I  want  to 


HOME  41 

quit,  too,  Alix,"  he  said  in  his  low  vibrating  voice,  "  but 
I  'm  afraid  we  can't.  You  see,  I  'm  beaten,  too.  While 
I  was  just  in  love  with  your  body  we  were  safe  enough, 
but  now  I  'm  in  love  with  you.  It 's  the  kind  of  love  a 
man  can  pray  for  in  vain.  No  head  in  it ;  nothing  but 
heart.  Honor  and  dishonor  become  mere  names. 
Nothing  matters  to  me  but  you." 

Tears  crawled  slowly  down  Alix's  cheeks.  She  stood 
with  her  elbows  on  the  rail  and  faced  the  ocean  so  no 
one  might  see.  Her  hands  were  locked.  In  her  mind 
her  own  thoughts  were  running.  Somehow  she  could 
understand  Alan  without  listening.  If  only  Gerry  had 
done  this  thing  to  her,  she  was  thinking,  the  pitiless 
wracking  misery  would  have  been  joy  at  white  heat. 
She  was  unmasked  at  last  —  but  Gerry  had  not  un- 
masked her.  Not  once  since  the  day  of  the  wreck  and 
their  engagement  had  Gerry  unmasked  himself. 

Alan  was  standing  with  his  side  to  the  rail,  his  eyes 
leaving  her  face  only  to  keep  track  of  the  promenaders 
so  that  no  officious  friend  should  take  her  by  surprise. 
He  went  on  talking.  "  Our  judgment  is  calling  to  us  to 
quit  but  it  is  calling  from  days  ago,"  he  said.  "  We 
would  n't  listen  then  and  it 's  only  the  echo  we  hear  now. 
We  can  try  to  quit  if  you  like,  but  when  I  am  alone  I 
shall  call  for  you,  and  when  you  are  alone  you  will  call 
for  me.  We  will  always  be  alone  except  when  we  are 
near  each  other.  We  can't  break  the  tension,  Alix.  It 
will  break  us  in  the  end." 

The  slow  tears  were  still  crawling  down  Alix's  cheeks. 
In  all  her  life  she  had  never  suffered  so  before.  She 
felt  that  each  tear  paid  the  price  of  all  her  levity. 


42  HOME 

"  Alan,"  she  said  with  a  quick  glance  at  him,  "  did 
you  know  when  we  began  that  it  was  going  to  be  like 
this?" 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  I  have  trifled  with  many 
women  and  I  was  ready  to  trifle  with  you.  No  one  had 
ever  driven  you  and  I  wanted  to  drive  you.  I  thought 
I  had  divorced  passion  and  love.  I  thought  perhaps 
you  had  too.  But  love  is  here.  I  am  not  driving  you. 
We  are  being  driven." 


CHAPTEE  VII 

ALIX  and  Alan  were  in  the  grip  of  a  fever  that  is 
hard  to  break  save  through  satiety  and  ruin. 
They  were  still  held  apart  by  generations  of  sound  tra- 
dition but  against  this  bulwark  the  full  flood  of  modern 
life  as  they  lived  it  was  directed.  In  Alan  there  was  a 
counter-strain, —  a  tradition  of  passion  that  predisposed 
him  to  accept  the  easy  tenets  of  the  growing  sensual  cult. 
As  he  found  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  turn  hia 
thoughts  away  from  Alix,  he  strove  to  regain  the  clear- 
headedness that  only  a  year  before  had  held  him  back 
from  definite  moral  surrender. 

It  was  only  a  year  ago  that  the  table  talk  one  night 
had  turned  on  what  was  Society's  religion  and  he  had 
said,  "  Society  has  no  religion  nowadays ;  it  has  given  up 
religion  for  a  corrosive  philosophy  of  non-ethics." 

He  had  seen  clearly  then  but  not  clearly  enough  to 
save  himself.  He  had  played  with  the  corrosive  philos- 
ophy until  he  had  divorced  flesh  from  the  soul  and  now 
it  was  playing  with  him.  He  found  himself  powerless 
in  the  grip  of  his  desire  for  Alix. 

With  her,  things  had  not  gone  so  far.  From  the 
security  of  the  untempted  she  had  watched  her  chosen 
world  play  with  fire  and  only  now  when  temptation 
assailed  her,  did  she  realize  the  weakness  that  lies  in 

43 


44  HOME 

every  woman  once  her  outposts  have  fallen  and  her  bare 
heart  becomes  engaged  in  the  battle. 

Lovers  in  possession  of  each  other  can  hide  their  hap- 
piness from  a  hurried  world  but  it  is  hard  to  dissemble 
the  longing  look  and  the  reckless  craving  for  bodily  near- 
ness to  one's  heart's  desire  when  it  is  yet  unattained. 
Not  many  days  had  passed  after  their  return  when 
Alan's  constant  attendance  upon  Gerry's  wife  became 
the  absorbing  center  of  interest  to  their  part  of  town 
life.  People  said  little  enough.  Their  eyes  were 
too  wide  open  watching  the  headlong  rush  towards 
catastrophe. 

One  early  morning  Nance  sent  for  Alan.  He  found 
her  alone.  She  had  been  crying.  He  came  to  her  where 
she  stood  by  the  fire  and  she  turned  and  put  her  arms 
around  his  neck.  She  tried  to  smile  but  her  lips 
twitched.  "  Alan,"  she  said,  "  I  want  you  to  go  away." 

Alan  was  touched.  He  caught  her  wrists  and  took 
her  arms  from  around  his  neck.  "  You  must  n't  do  that 
sort  of  thing  to  me,  Nance.  I  'm  not  fit  for  it."  He 
made  her  sit  down  on  a  great  sofa  before  the  fire  and  sat 
down  beside  her.  "  You  remind  me  to-day  of  the  most 
beautiful  thing  I  ever  heard  said  of  you  —  by  a  spiteful 
friend." 

"What  was  it?"  said  Nance,  turning  her  troubled 
eyes  to  him. 

"  She  said,  '  She  is  only  beautiful  in  her  own  home.' 
I  never  understood  it  before.  It 's  a  great  thing  to  be 
beautiful  in  one's  own  home." 

"  Oh,  Alan,"  said  Nance,  catching  his  hand  and  hold- 
ing it  against  her  breast,  "  it  is  a  great  thing.  It 's  the 


HOME  45 

greatest  thing  in  life.  That 's  why  I  sent  for  you  — 
because  you  are  wrecking  forever  your  chance  of  being 
beautiful  in  your  own  home.  And  worse  than  that,  you 
are  wrecking  Alix's  chance.  Of  course  you  are  blind. 
Of  course  you  are  mad.  I  understand,  Alan,  but  I 
want  to  hold  you  close  to  my  heart  until  you  see  —  until 
the  fever  is  cooled.  You  and  Alix  cannot  do  this  thing. 
It  is  n't  as  though  her  people  and  ours  were  of  the  froth 
of  the  nation.  You  and  she  started  life  with  nothing 
but  Puritan  to  build  on.  You  may  have  built  just  play- 
houses of  sand,  but  deep  down  the  old  rock  foundation 
must  endure.  You  must  take  your  stand  on  that." 

Her  eyes  had  been  fixed  in  the  fire  but  now  she 
turned  them  to  his  face.  Alan  sat  with  head  hanging 
forward,  his  gaze  and  thoughts  far  beyond  the  confines 
of  the  room.  Then  he  shook  himself  and  got  up  to  go. 
"  I  wish  we  could,  Nance,"  he  said  gravely  and  then 
added  half  to  himself,  half  to  her,  "  I  '11  try." 

For  some  days  Alan  had  been  prepared  to  go  away 
and  take  Alix  with  him,  should  she  consent.  Upon  his 
arrival  he  had  had  an  interview  with  McDale  &  McDale 
in  the  course  of  which  that  firm  opened  its  eyes  and  its 
pocket  wider  than  it  ever  had  before. 

"  You  are  out  for  money,  Mr.  Wayne,"  had  been  the 
feeble  remonstrance  of  the  senior  member. 

"  Just  money,"  replied  Alan.  "  If  you  owed  as 
much  as  I  do  you  would  be  out  for  it  too.  Of  course, 
you  're  not.  What  do  you  want  ?  You  Ve  got  my 
guarantee.  Ten  per  cent,  under  office  estimates  for 
work  and  time." 

When  Alan  left  McDale  &  McDale's  offices  he  had 


46  HOME 

contracted  more  or  less  on  his  own  terms  and  McDale, 
Junior,  said  to  the  Senior.     "  He  's  only  twenty-six  - 
a  boy.     How  did  he  beat  us  ?  " 

"  By  beating  Walton's  record  first,"  replied  McDale, 
Senior,  "  and  how  he  did  that  time  will  show." 

As  he  walked  slowly  back  from  Nance's,  Alan  was 
thinking  that  after  all  there  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  cut  and  run  —  no  reason  except  Alix. 

He  reached  his  rooms.  As  he  crossed  the  threshold 
a  premonition  seized  him.  He  felt  as  if  some  one  were 
there.  He  glanced  hurriedly  about.  The  rooms  were 
still  in  the  disorder  in  which  he  had  left  them  and  they 
were  empty.  Then  he  saw  that  he  had  stepped  on  a 
note  that  had  been  dropped  through  the  letter-slip.  He 
picked  it  up.  A  thrill  went  through  him  as  he  recog- 
nized Alix's  handwriting.  There  was  no  stamp.  It 
must  have  been  delivered  by  hand.  He  tore  it  open 
and  read :  "  You  said  that  a  moment's  notice  was  all 
you  asked.  I  will  take  the  Montreal  Express  with  you 
to-day." 

Alan's  blood  turned  to  liquid  fire.  The  note  conjured 
before  him  a  vision  of  Alix.  He  crushed  it  and  held  it 
to  his  lips  and  laughed  —  not  jeeringly  but  in  pure,  un- 
controlled excitement. 

It  was  not  a  coincidence  that  Gerry  had  sought  out 
Alix  at  the  very  hour  that  Nance  was  summoning  Alan. 
Gerry  and  Nance  were  driven  by  the  same  forewarning 
of  catastrophe.  Gerry  had  felt  it  first  but  he  had  been 
slow  to  believe,  slower  to  act.  He  had  no  precedent  for 
this  sort  of  thing.  His  whole  being  was  in  revolt  against 


HOME  47 

the  situation  in  which  he  found  himself.  It  was  after 
a  sleepless  night  —  a  most  unheard  of  thing  with  him 
—  that  he  decided  he  could  let  things  go  no  longer.  He 
went  to  Alix's  room,  knocked  and  entered. 

Alix  was  up,  though  the  hour  was  early  for  her. 
Fresh  from  her  bath  she  sat  in  a  sheen  of  blue  dressing- 
gown  before  the  mirror  doing  her  own  hair.  Gerry 
glanced  around  him  and  into  the  bathroom  looking  for 
the  maid. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Alix.  "  She 's  not  here. 
Did  you  want  to  see  her  ?  " 

Gerry  winced  at  the  levity.  He  wondered  how  Alix 
could  play  the  game  she  was  playing  and  be  gay.  Alix 
finished  doing  her  hair.  "  There,"  she  said  with  a  final 
pat  and  turned  to  face  Gerry. 

He  was  standing  beside  an  open  window.  He  could 
feel  the  cold  air  on  his  hands.  He  felt  like  putting  his 
head  out  into  it.  His  head  was  hot.  "  Alix,"  he  said 
suddenly  without  looking  at  her,  "  I  want  you  to  drop 
Alan." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  drop  Alan,"  replied  Alix 
lightly. 

Gerry  whirled  around  at  her  tone.  His  nostrils  were 
quivering.  To  his  amazement  his  hands  fairly  itched  to 
clutch  her  beautiful  throat.  He  could  hardly  control  his 
voice.  "  Stop  playing,  Alix,"  he  gulped.  "  There  's 
never  been  a  divorcee  among  the  Lansings  nor  a  wife- 
beater  and  one  is  as  near  this  room  as  the  other  right 
now." 

Gerry  regretted  the  words  as  soon  as  he  had  said  them 
but  Alix  was  not  angry.  She  looked  at  him  through 


narrowed  eyes.  She  speculated  on  the  sensation  of  be- 
ing once  again  roughly  handled  by  this  rock  of  a  man. 
Only  once  before  had  she  seen  Gerry  angry  and  the 
sight  had  fascinated  her  then  as  it  did  now.  There  was 
something  tremendous  and  impressive  in  his  anger  and 
struggle  for  control.  A  great  torrent  held  back  by  a 
great  strong  dam.  She  almost  wished  it  would  break 
through.  She  could  almost  find  it  in  her  to  throw  her- 
self on  the  flood  and  let  it  carry  her  whither  it  would. 
She  said  nothing. 

Gerry  bit  his  lips  and  turned  from  her.  "  And  Alan, 
of  all  men,"  he  went  on.  At  the  words  the  current  of 
her  thoughts  was  changed.  She  found  herself  suddenly 
on  the  defensive.  "  Do  you  think  you  are  the  first 
woman  he  has  played  with  and  betrayed  ?  "  Gerry's 
lip  was  curved  to  a  sneer.  "  A  philanderer.  A  man 
who  surrounds  himself  with  tarnished  reputations." 

A  dull  glow  came  into  Alix's  cheeks.  "  Philanderers 
are  of  many  breeds,"  she  said.  "  There  are  those  who 
have  the  wit  to  philander  with  woman  and  those  who 
can  only  rise  to  a  whisky  or  a  golf  club.  Whatever  else 
Alan  may  be  he  is  not  a  time-server." 

Once  aroused  Alix  had  taken  up  the  gauntlet  with  no 
uncertain  hand.  Her  first  words  carried  the  war  into 
the  enemy's  camp  and  they  were  barbed. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Gerry  dully.  He  had 
not  anticipated  a  defense. 

"  I  mean  what  you  might  have  deduced  with  an  effort. 
What  are  you  but  a  philanderer  in  little  things  where 
Alan  is  in  great  ?  What  have  you  ever  done  to  hold  me 
or  any  other  woman?  I  respected  you  once  for  what 


HOME  49 

you  were  going  to  be.  That  has  died.  Did  you  think 
I  was  going  to  make  you  into  a  man  ? " 

Gerry  stood,  breathing  hard,  a  great  despondency  in 
his  heart.  Alix  went  on  pitilessly.  "  What  have  you 
become  ?  A  monumental  time-server  on  the  world  and 
you  are  surprised  that  a  worker  reaches  the  prize  that 
you  can  not  attain !  e  All  things  come  to  him  who 
waits/  That 's  a  trite  saying.  But  how  about  this  ? 
There  are  lots  of  things  that  come  to  him  who  only 
waits  that  he  could  do  without.  The  trouble  with  you 
is  that  you  have  built  your  life  altogether  on  traditions. 
It  is  a  tradition  that  your  women  are  faithful,  so  you 
need  not  exert  yourself  to  holding  yours !  It  is  a  tra- 
dition that  you  can  do  no  wrong,  so  you  need  not  exert 
yourself  to  doing  anything  at  all !  You  are  playing 
with  ghosts,  Gerry.  Your  party  was  over  a  generation 
ago" 

Alix  had  calmed  down.  There  was  still  time  for 
Gerry  to  choke  her  to  good  effect.  The  hour  could  yet 
be  his.  But  he  did  not  know  it.  Smarting  under  the 
lash  of  Alix's  tongue  he  made  a  final  and  disastrous 
false  step. 

"  You  try  to  humiliate  me  by  placing  me  back  to  back 
with  Alan  ? "  he  said,  with  his  new-born  sneer.  Alix 
appraised  it  with  calm  eyes  and  found  it  rather  attrac- 
tive. "  Well,  let  me  tell  you  that  Alan  is  so  small  a 
man  that  if  I  dropped  out  of  the  world  to-day,  he  'd  sail 
for  Africa  to-morrow  and  think  for  the  rest  of  his  life 
of  his  escape  from  you  as  a  close  shave." 

Alix  sprang  to  her  feet.  She  was  trembling.  Gerry 
felt  a  throb  of  exultation.  It  was  his  turn  to  wound. 


50  HOME 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  said  Alix  very  quietly,  but 
it  was  the  quiet  of  suppressed  passion  at  white  heat. 

"  I  mean  that  Alan  is  the  kind  of  man  who  finds  other 
men's  wives  an  economy.  He  would  take  everything 
you  have  that 's  worth  taking,  but  not  you." 

A.lix's  eyes  blazed  at  him  from  her  white  face. 
"  Please  go  away,"  she  said.  He  started  to  speak. 
"  Please  go  away,"  she  repeated.  Her  lips  were  quiver- 
ing and  her  face  twitched  in  a  way  that  was  terrifying 
to  Gerry.  He  hurried  out  repeating  to  himself  over  and 
over,  "  You  have  made  Alix  cry.  You  have  made  Alix 
cry." 

Alix  toyed  with  the  silver  on  her  dressing-table  until 
he  had  gone  and  then  she  swept  across  the  room  to  her 
little  writing-desk  and  wrote  the  note  that  Alan  had 
found  half  an  hour  later  in  his  rooms. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

GERRY  stood  in  the  hall  outside  Alix's  room  for  a 
moment  hoping  to  hear  a  sob,  a  cry,  anything  for 
an  excuse  to  go  back.  Instead  he  heard  the  scratch  of 
a  pen  but  he  was  too  troubled  to  deduce  anything  from 
that.  He  went  slowly  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the 
street.  The  biting  winter  air  braced  him.  He  started 
to  walk  rapidly.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  he  found  him- 
self standing  on  a  deserted  pier.  He  took  off  his  hat 
and  let  the  wind  cool  his  head.  "  I  have  been  a  brute," 
he  said  to  himself.  "  I  have  made  a  woman  cry, — 
Alix !  "  He  turned  and  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
Avenue  and  into  his  club  but  he  still  felt  uneasy.  A 
waiter  brought  a  whisky  and  soda  and  put  it  at  his 
elbow.  Gerry  turned  on  him.  "  Who  told  you  to  bring 
that  ?  "  Then  he  felt  ashamed  of  his  petulance.  "  It 's 
all  right,  George,"  he  said,  more  genially  than  he  had 
spoken  for  many  a  day,  "but  I  don't  want  it.  Take 
it  away." 

He  sat  for  a  long  time  and  at  last  came  to  a  resolution. 
Alix  loved  roses.  He  would  send  her  enough  to  bank 
her  room  and  he  would  follow  them  home.  He  went 
up  the  Avenue  to  his  florist's  and  stood  outside  trying 
to  decide  whether  it  should  be  one  mass  of  blood  red  or 
a  color  scheme.  Suddenly  the  plate  glass  caught  a  re- 
flection and  threw  it  in  his  face.  Gerry  turned.  A 

51 


52  HOME 

four-wheeler  was  passing.  He  could  not  see  the  occu- 
pant but  on  top  was  a  large,  familiar  trunk  marked  with 
a  yellow  girdle.  On  the  trunk  was  a  familiar  label. 
He  stared  at  it  and  the  label  stared  back  at  him  and 
finally  danced  before  his  mazed  eyes  as  the  cab  dis- 
appeared into  the  traffic. 

Gerry  stood  for  a  long  while,  stunned.  He  saw  a 
lady  bow  to  him  from  a  carriage  and  afterwards  he 
remembered  that  he  had  not  bowed  back.  Somebody 
ran  into  him.  He  looked  back  at  the  flowers  massed  in 
the  window,  remembered  that  he  did  not  need  them  now, 
and  drew  slowly  away.  Two  men  hailed  him  from  the 
other  side  of  the  street.  Gerry  braced  himself,  nodded 
to  them  and  hailed  a  passing  hansom.  From  the  direc- 
tion Alix's  cab  had  taken  he  knew  the  station  she  was 
bound  for.  As  he  arrived  on  the  platform  they  were 
giving  the  last  call  for  the  Montreal  Express.  He 
caught  sight  of  Alix  hurrying  through  the  gates  and 
followed.  As  she  reached  the  first  Pullman,  somebody 
rapped  on  the  window  of  the  drawing-room.  Gerry  saw 
Alan's  face  pressed  against  the  pane.  He  watched  Alix 
stop,  turn  and  climb  the  steps  of  the  car  and  then  he 
wheeled  and  hurried  from  the  station. 

Where  could  he  go?  Not  to  his  club  and  Alan's. 
His  face  would  betray  the  scandal  with  which  the  club 
would  be  buzzing  to-morrow.  Not  to  his  big  comfort- 
able house.  It  would  be  too  gloomy.  Even  in  dis- 
accord, Alix  had  imparted  to  its  somber  oak  and  deep 
shadows  the  glow  of  buoyant  life.  When  she  was  there 
one  felt  as  though  there  were  flowers  in  the  house. 
Gerry  was  seized  with  a  great  desire  to  hide  from  his 


HOME  53 

world,  his  mother,  himself.  He  pictured  the  scare-heads 
in  the  papers.  That  the  name  of  Lansing  should  be 
found  in  that  galley!  It  was  too  much.  He  could 
not  face  it. 

He  bought  a  morning  paper  full  of  shipping  news  and, 
getting  into  a  taxi,  gave  the  address  of  his  bank.  On 
the  way  he  studied  the  sailings'  column.  He  found  what 
he  wanted.  The  Gunter  due  to  sail  that  afternoon  for 
Brazil,  Pernambuco  the  first  stop. 

At  the  bank  Gerry  drew  out  the  balance  of  his  current 
account.  It  amounted  to  something  over  two  thousand 
dollars.  He  took  most  of  it  in  Bank  of  England  notes. 
Then  he  started  home  to  pack  but  before  he  reached  the 
house  a  vision  of  the  servants,  flurried  after  helping 
their  mistress  off,  commiserating  him  to  each  other, 
pitying  him  to  his  face  perhaps,  or  in  the  case  of  the 
old  butler,  suppressing  a  great  emotion,  was  too  much 
for  him.  He  drove  instead  to  a  big  department  store 
and  in  an  hour  had  bought  a  complete  outfit.  He 
lunched  at  one  of  the  quiet  restaurants  that  divide  down 
town  from  up.  The  people  about  him  were  voluble  in 
French  and  Spanish.  Already  he  felt  as  if  his  exile 
had  begun. 

The  Gunter  was  to  sail  at  three  from  Brooklyn. 
Gerry  crossed  by  the  ferry.  He  did  not  get  out  of  his 
cab.  Over  his  baggage,  piled  outside  and  in,  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  suspension  bridge.  Years  and  years 
ago  his  father  had  led  him  across  that  bridge  when  it 
was  the  eighth  wonder  of  the  world.  Gerry  gave  a  great 
sigh  at  the  memory.  He  had  not  invaded  Brooklyn 
since.  As  the  cab  threaded  the  interminable  and  reek- 


54  HOME 

ing  length  of  Furman  Street  he  looked  out  and  felt 
himself  upon  an  alien  shore. 

He  had  avoided  buying  a  ticket.  As  the  Gunier 
warped  out,  the  purser  came  to  him.  "  I  understand 
you  have  no  ticket." 

"  'No,"  said  Gerry,  drawing  a  roll  of  bills.  "  How 
much  is  the  passage  to  Pernambuco  ? " 

The  purser  fidgeted.     "  This  is  irregular,  sir." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Gerry,  indifferently. 

"  I  have  no  ticket  forms,"  said  the  purser,  weaken- 
ing. 

"  I  don't  want  a  ticket,"  said  Gerry.  "  I  want  a  good 
room  and  three  square  meals  a  day." 

Long,  quiet  days  on  a  quiet  sea  are  a  master  sedative 
to  a  troubled  mind.  Gerry  had  a  great  deal  to  think 
through.  He  sat  by  the  hour  with  hands  loosely  clasped, 
his  eyes  far  out  on  the  ocean,  tracing  the  course  of  his 
married  life  and  measuring  the  grounds  for  Alix's 
arraignment.  Gerry  was  just  and  generous  to  others' 
faults  but  not  to  his  own.  He  had  forgotten  the  sting 
of  Alix's  words  and,  to  his  growing  amazement,  saw  in 
himself  their  justification.  A  time-server  he  certainly 
had  been.  But  he  reviewed  the  lives  of  many  other 
men  in  his  own  leisurely  class  and  decided  that  he 
was  not  without  company.  After  all,  what  was  there  in 
America  for  such  men  to  do  except  make  more  money  ? 

For  the  first  time  he  was  struck  by  the  narrowness 
of  American  life.  There  was  only  one  line  of  effort. 
The  whole  people  thronged  a  single  causeway.  They 
made  a  provincial  demand  that  all  should  dress  alike, 
look  alike,  think  alike.  They  pressed  on  in  a  body  to 


HOME  55 

the  single  goal  of  wealth  and  when  they  got  there  they 
were  lost. 

Individualists  were  rare  and  unwelcome.  Boys 
stoned  Chinamen  because  they  were  different;  they 
followed  a  turbaned  Asiatic,  strayed  to  an  unfriendly 
shore,  with  jeers;  an  astounded  Briton,  faultlessly 
dressed,  found  his  spats  the  sensation  of  a  street.  Each 
of  these  incidents  Gerry  had  witnessed  with  amusement 
and  dismissed  without  a  thought.  ISTow  they  became  so 
many  weather-vanes  all  pointing  the  same  way.  How 
was  it  Alan  had  summed  up  the  history  of  America? 
"  Men,  machinery,  machines !  " 

With  the  thought  of  Alan  his  brow  puckered.  Here 
he  felt  no  impulse  to  indulgence.  Some  day  he  would 
meet  Alan  and  when  he  did  he  would  break  him.  The 
scorn  he  had  expressed  to  Alix  for  Alan  and  Alan's 
nature  was  without  understanding  but  it  was  genuine. 
He  knew  there  were  such  men  and  he  ascribed  all  their 
acts  to  a  debasement  beyond  regeneration  and  none  to 
temperament.  From  moral  laxity  there  was  no  appeal 
beyond  the  sin  itself. 

The  landfall  of  Pernambuco  awoke  him  from  reveries 
and  introspection.  He  did  not  look  upon  this  palm- 
strewn  coast  as  a  land  of  new  beginnings  —  he  sought 
merely  a  Lethean  shore. 

The  ship  crawled  in  from  an  oily  sea  to  the  long  strip 
of  harbor  behind  the  reef.  Above,  the  sun  blazed  from 
a  bowl  of  unbroken  blue;  on  land,  the  multicolored 
houses  spread  like  a  rainbow  under  a  dark  cloud  of 
brown-tiled  roofs.  Giant  plane  trees  cast  blots  of  shade 
on  the  cobbled  esplanade  of  the  boat  quay.  In  their 


56  HOME 

shelter  a  negress  squatted  behind  her  basin  of  cous-cous 
and  another  before  a  tray  of  fried  fish.  Around  them 
lounged  a  ragged  crew,  boatmen,  stevedores  and  riffraff, 
black,  brown  and  white.  Beyond  the  trees  was  a  line 
of  high  stuccoed  houses,  each  painted  a  different  color, 
all  weather-stained,  and  some  with  rusted  balconies  that 
threatened  to  topple  on  to  the  passer-by.  One  bore  the 
legend,  "  Hotel  d'Europe."  There  Gerry  installed  him- 
self. 


CHAPTEE  IX 

BETWEEN"  the  hour  of  writing  her  note  to  Alan 
and  the  moment  when  she  stepped  on  the  train 
Alix  had  had  no  time  to  think.  She  was  still  driven  by 
the  impulse  of  anger  that  Gerry's  words  had  aroused. 
She  did  not  reflect  that  the  wound  was  only  to  her 
pride. 

Alan  held  open  the  door  of  the  drawing-room.  She 
passed  in  and  he  closed  it.  She  did  not  feel  as  though 
she  were  in  a  train.  On  the  little  table  stood  a  vase. 
It  held  a  single,  perfect  rose.  Under  the  vase  was  a 
curious  doily,  strayed  from  Alan's  collection  of  exotic 
things.  A  cushion  lay  tossed  on  the  green  sofa,  not  a 
new  cushion  but  one  that  had  been  broken  in  to  com- 
forting. Alix  took  in  every  detail  of  the  arrangement 
of  the  tiny  room  with  her  first  breath.  What  fore- 
thought, what  a  note  of  rest  with  which  to  meet  a 
troubled  and  hurried  heart!  But  how  insidious  to 
frame  an  ignoble  flight  in  such  a  homelike  setting !  She 
felt  a  slight  revolt  at  the  travesty. 

Alan  was  standing  with  blazing  eyes  and  working 
face  like  an  eager  hound  in  leash.  Alix  threw  back 
her  veil  and  looked  at  him.  With  a  quick  stride  for- 
ward he  caught  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  mouth  until 
she  gasped  for  breath.  With  a  flash  she  remembered  his 
own  words,  "  If  ever  I  kiss  you  I  shall  bring  your  soul 

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58  HOME 

out  between  your  lips."  To  Alix's  amazement  she  did 
not  feel  an  answering  fire.  Her  body  was  being  lashed 
with  a  living  flame  and  her  body  was  cold.  In  that 
instant  this  seemed  a  terrible  thing.  She  had  sold  her 
birthright  for  a  price  and  the  price  was  turning  to  dead 
leaves.  She  made  an  effort  to  kiss  Alan  back  but  with 
the  effort  shame  came  over  her.  There  was  so  much 
in  Alan's  kiss.  The  kiss  had  brought  her  soul  out  be- 
tween her  lips.  Her  soul  stood  naked  before  her  and 
one's  naked  soul  is  an  ugly  thing.  The  kiss  disrobed 
her,  too,  and  from  that  last  bourne  of  shame  Alix  sud- 
denly revolted. 

Gasping,  she  pushed  Alan  from  her.  Their  eyes  met. 
His  were  burning,  hers  were  frightened.  She  moved 
slowly  backward  to  the  door  and  with  her  hand  behind 
her  opened  the  latch.  Alan  did  not  move.  He  knew 
that  if  he  could  not  hold  her  with  his  eyes  he  could  not 
hold  her  at  all.  The  train  started.  Alix  passed 
through  the  door  and  rushed  to  the  platform.  The 
porter  was  about  to  drop  the  trap  on  the  steps.  Alix 
slipped  by  him.  With  all  her  force  she  pushed  open  the 
door  and  jumped.  The  train  was  moving  very  slowly 
but  Alix  reeled  and  would  have  fallen  had  it  not  been 
for  a  passing  baggageman.  He  caught  her  and,  still 
in  his  arms,  Alix  looked  back.  Alan's  white  face  was 
at  the  window.  He  looked  steadily  at  her. 

"  Ye  almost  wint  with  him,  Miss,"  said  the  baggage- 
man, with  a  full  brogue  and  a  twinkling  eye. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  "  said  Alix,  dazed. 

At  the  strange  question  the  baggageman's  long  upper 
lip  drew  down  to  gravity.  "  Where  d'  ye  think  I  was 


HOME  59 

whin  ye  stipt  off  the  thrain  into  me  arms  ? "  he  asked 
solemnly. 

Alix  had  released  herself  and  his  quaint  question 
brought  her  to  her  senses.  She  looked  at  him.  He  was 
a  mass  of  burly  kindliness  surmounted  by  a  shock  of 
gray  hair.  "  There,  there,"  she  said  conciliatingly,  "  it 
was  a  foolish  question.  Will  you  get  me  a  cab?  I 
don't  want  a  porter." 

"  ]STo  fear,  Miss,"  said  the  baggageman.  "  I  '11  hand 
ye  over  to  no  naygur.  If  they  says  anything  to  me  I  '11 
tell  'em  we  're  friends."  The  smile  was  back  in  his 
face  and  the  twinkle  in  his  eye.  He  started  off,  his 
gray  head  cocked  to  one  side. 

"  That 's  right,"  said  Alix  as  she  followed  his  lead 
to  a  cab.  She  got  in  and  then  shook  hands  with  her 
escort.  He  looked  at  the  dollar  bill  her  grasp  left  be- 
hind. 

"  That  was  n't  called  for,  Miss.  It  was  enough  for 
me  to  have  saved  ye  from  a  fall." 

"  You  did  n't  save  me,"  said  Alix  with  a  bewildering 
smile.  "  I  saved  myself." 

She  left  him  scratching  his  head  over  this  fresh 
enigma. 

Alix  was  tired  and  hungry  when  she  got  back  home 
but  excitement  kept  her  up.  She  felt  that  she  stood 
on  the  threshold  of  new  effort  and  a  new  life.  After  all, 
she  thought,  it  was  she  that  had  made  her  dear  old  Gerry 
into  a  time-server.  She  could  have  made  him  into  any- 
thing else  if  she  had  tried.  She  longed  to  tell  him  so. 
Perhaps  he  would  catch  her  and  crush  her  in  his  arms 
as  Alan  had  done.  She  laughed  at  herself  for  wanting 


60  HOME 

him  to.  She  rang  for  the  butler.  "  Where 's  your 
master,  John  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am.  Mr.  Gerry  has  n't  come 
back  since  he  went  out  this  morning."  To  John,  Mr. 
Lansing  was  a  person  who  had  been  dead  for  some  time. 
His  present  overlords  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gerry  and  Mrs. 
Lansing  when  she  was  in  town. 

"  Telephone  to  the  club  and  if  he  is  there  tell  him 
I  want  to  see  him,"  said  Alix  and  turned  to  her  welcome 
tea.  The  sandwiches  seemed  unusually  small  to  her 
ravenous  appetite. 

Gerry  was  not  at  the  club.  Alix  dressed  resplend- 
ently  for  dinner.  Never  had  she  dressed  for  any  other 
man  with  the  care  that  she  dressed  for  Gerry  that  night. 
But  Gerry  did  not  come.  At  half-past  nine  Alix  ordered 
the  table  cleared.  "  I  '11  not  dine  to-night,"  she  said  to 
John.  "  When  your  master  comes,  show  him  in  here." 
She  sat  on  in  the  library  listening  for  Gerry's  step  in 
the  hall. 

From  time  to  time  John  came  into  the  room  to  re- 
plenish the  fire.  On  one  of  these  occasions  Alix  told 
him  he  might  go  to  bed  but  an  hour  later  he  returned 
and  stood  in  the  door.  Alix  looked  very  small,  curled 
up  in  a  great  leathern  chair  by  the  fire. 

"  It 's  after  one  o'clock,  ma'am,"  said  John.  "  Mr. 
Gerry  won't  be  coming  in  to-night."  Alix  made  no 
answer.  John  held  his  ground.  "  It  ?s  time  for  you  to 
go  to  bed,  ma'am.  Shall  I  call  the  maid  ?  " 

It  was  a  long  time  since  John  had  taken  any  apparent 
interest  in  his  mistress.  Alix  had  avoided  him.  She 
had  felt  that  the  old  servant  disapproved  of  her.  More 


HOME  61 

than  once  she  had  thought  of  discharging  him  but  he 
had  never  given  her  grounds  that  would  justify  her  be- 
fore Gerry.  ]$Fow  he  was  ordering  her  to  bed  and  in- 
stead of  being  angry  she  was  soothed.  She  wondered 
how  she  could  ever  have  thought  of  discharging  him. 
He  seemed  strong  and  restful,  more  like  part  of  the 
old  house  than  a  servant.  Alix  got  up.  "  Wo,  don't 
call  the  maid.  I  won't  need  her,"  she  said.  Then  she 
added,  "  Good-night,  John,"  as  she  passed  out. 

John  held  wide  the  door  and  bowed  with  a  deference 
that  was  a  touch  more  sincere  than  usual.  He  answered, 
"  Good-night,"  as  if  he  meant  it. 

Alix  was  exhausted  but  it  was  long  before  she  fell 
asleep.  She  cried  softly.  She  wanted  to  be  comforted. 
She  had  dressed  so  beautifully  —  she  had  been  so  beauti- 
ful —  and  Gerry  had  not  come  home.  As  she  cried,  her 
disappointment  grew  into  a  great  trouble. 

She  awoke  early  from  a  feverish  sleep.  Immediately 
a  sense  of  weight  assailed  her.  She  rang  and  learned 
that  Gerry  had  not  yet  come  home.  Then  his  words 
of  yesterday  suddenly  came  to  her.  "  If  I  dropped  out 
of  the  world  to-day  —  "  Alix  stared  wide-eyed  at  the 
ceiling.  Why  had  she  remembered  those  words  ?  She 
lay  for  a  long  time  thinking.  Her  breakfast  was 
brought  to  her  but  she  did  not  touch  it.  It  was  almost 
noon  in  the  cloudy  Sunday  morning  when  she  roused 
herself  from  apathy.  She  sprang  from  the  bed.  She 
summoned  Judge  Healey  with  a  note  and  Mrs.  Lansing 
with  a  telegram.  The  telegram  was  carefully  worded, 
"  Please  come  and  stay  for  a  while.  Gerry  is  away." 
•  The  Judge  found  Alix  radiating  the  freshness  of  a 


beautiful  woman  careful  of  her  person,  but  it  was  the 
freshness  of  a  pale  flower.  Alix  was  grave  and  her 
gravity  had  a  sweetness  that  made  the  Judge's  heart 
bound.  He  felt  an  awakening  in  her  that  he  had  long 
watched  for.  She  told  him  all  the  story  of  the  day  be- 
fore in  a  steady  monotone  that  omitted  nothing  and 
gave  the  facts  only  their  own  weight. 

When  she  had  finished  the  Judge  patted  her  hand. 
"  You  would  make  a  splendid  witness,  my  dear,"  he 
said.  "  ISTow,  what  you  want  is  for  me  to  find  Gerry 
and  bring  him  back,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Alix,  "  if  you  can." 

"  Nonsense !  Of  course  I  can.  Men  don't  drop  out 
of  the  world  so  easily  nowadays.  But  I  still  want  to 
know  a  thing  or  two.  Are  you  sure  Gerry  knew  noth- 
ing of  your  —  er  —  excursion  to  the  station?" 

Alix  shook  her  head.  "  From  the  time  he  left  my 
room  and  the  house  he  has  not  been  back." 

"  Has  he  been  to  the  club  ?  " 

Alix  colored  faintly.  "  I  see,"  said  the  Judge 
quickly.  "  I  '11  ask  there.  I  '11  go  now."  He  went 
off  and  all  that  day  he  sought  in  vain  for  a  trace  of 
Gerry.  He  went  to  all  his  haunts  in  the  city  —  he  had 
telephoned  to  those  outside.  At  night  he  returned  to 
Alix  but  it  was  Mrs.  Lansing  that  received  him  in  the 
library. 

The  Judge  was  tired  and  his  buoyancy  had  deserted 
him.  He  told  her  of  his  failure.  Mrs.  Lansing  was 
thoughtful  but  not  greatly  troubled.  "  Gerry,"  she  said, 
"  has  a  level  head.  He  may  have  gone  away  but  that 
is  all.  He  can  take  care  of  himself."  She  went  to 


HOME  63 

tell  Alix  that  there  was  no  news.  When  she  came  back 
the  Judge  turned  to  her.  "  Well,"  he  asked,  "  what 
did  she  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  except  that  she  wanted  to  know  if  you  had 
tried  the  bank." 

The  Judge  struck  his  fist  into  his  left  hand.  "  Never 
thought  of  it,"  he  said.  "That  child  has  a  head!" 
He  went  to  the  telephone.  From  the  president  of  the 
bank  he  traced  the  manager,  from  the  manager,  the 
cashier.  Yes,  Gerry  had  been  at  the  bank  on  Saturday. 
The  cashier  remembered  it  because  Mr.  Lansing  had 
drawn  a  certain  account  in  full.  He  would  not  say  how 
much. 

"  There,"  said  the  Judge  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "  that 's 
something.  It  takes  a  steady  nerve  to  draw  a  bank  ac- 
count in  full.  You  must  take  the  news  upstairs.  I  'm 
off.  I  '11  follow  up  the  clue  to-morrow." 

There  was  a  new  look  of  content  mingled  with  the 
worry  in  Mrs.  Lansing's  face  that  made  the  Judge  say 
as  he  held  out  his  hand  in  farewell,  "  Things  better  ? " 

Mrs.  Lansing  understood  him.  "  Yes,"  she  answered, 
and  added,  "  we  have  been  crying  together." 

Mrs.  Lansing  and  Alix  had  never  given  themselves  to 
each  other.  There  had  been  no  warfare  between  them 
but  equally  there  had  never  been  understanding.  To 
Mrs.  Lansing's  inherent  calm,  Alix's  scintillation  had 
been  repellent  and  Alix  before  Gerry's  mother  had  felt 
much  the  same  restraint  as  before  Gerry's  old  butler. 

There  had  been  strength  in  Mrs.  Lansing's  calm. 
She  had  been  waiting  and  now  the  waiting  was  over. 
Alix  had  given  herself  tearful  and  almost  wordless  into 


64  HOME 

arms  that  were  more  than  ready  and  had  then  poured 
out  her  heart  in  a  broken  tale  that  would  have  con- 
founded any  court  of  justice  but  which  between  women 
was  clearer  than  logic. 

At  the  end  Mrs.  Lansing  said  nothing.  Instead  she 
petted  Alix,  carried  her  off  to  bed  and  kept  her  there 
for  three  days.  In  her  waking  hours  Alix  added  spas- 
modic bits  to  her  confession  —  sage  reflections  after 
the  event,  dreamy  "  I  wonders  "  that  speculated  in  the 
past  and  in  the  measure  of  her  emotions. 

Mrs.  Lansing  sat  and  listened  and  sewed.  Her  soft 
brown  hair  just  touched  with  gray,  her  calm  face  with 
its  half-hidden  strength,  her  steady  eyes,  turned  now  on 
Alix,  now  on  her  work,  brought  peace  into  the  room 
and  held  it  there  in  spite  of  the  disquieting  lack  of  news 
of  Gerry. 

When  she  spoke  at  last  it  was  to  say  half-shyly,  "  You 
are  stronger  than  I  had  thought.  I  believe  every  woman 
at  the  actual  moment  of  surrender  feels  an  impulse  of 
shame  and  fear.  During  that  moment  desire  lets  go  of 
her.  It 's  the  last  chance  that  fate  holds  out.  The 
women  who  fail  to  take  the  chance, —  it  seems  to  me  they 
fail  through  weakness  of  spirit  and  not  of  flesh. 

"  More  women  are  ruined  by  circumstance  than  by 
desire.  Women  decide  to  burn  their  bridges  behind 
them  and  then  they  think  they  Ve  burned  them.  All 
the  circumstances  were  against  you.  There  was  n't  a 
loophole  in  the  net.  Fate  gave  you  your  moment  and 
you  tore  your  way  out." 

On  the  fourth  day  Alix  got  up  but  on  the  fifth 


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she  stayed  in  bed.  Mrs.  Lansing  found  her  pale  and 
frightened.  She  had  been  crying. 

"  Alix,"  she  whispered,  kneeling  beside  the  bed, 
"  what  is  it  ?  " 

Alix  told  her  amid  sobs.  "  Oh,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Lansing,  throwing  her  arms  around  her,  "  don't  cry. 
Don't  worry.  The  strength  will  come  with  the  need. 
In  the  end  you  '11  be  glad.  So  will  Gerry.  So  will  all 
of  us." 

"  It  is  n't  that,"  said  Alix,  faintly.  "  Oh,  it  is  n't 
that.  I  'm  just  thinking  and  thinking  how  terrible  it 
would  have  been  if  I  had  run  away  —  really  run  away. 
I  keep  imagining  how  awful  it  would  have  been.  It  is 
nightmare." 

"  Call  it  a  nightmare  if  you  like,  sweetheart,  but 
just  remember  that  you  are  awake." 

"  Yes,"  said  Alix  softly.  "  I  am  awake  now. 
Mother,  I  want  to  go  to  Red  Hill.  I  know  it 's  early 
but  I  want  to  go  now.  I  want  to  watch  the  Hill  come 
to  life  and  dress  up  for  the  summer.  ,  It  will  amuse  me. 
It 's  long  since  I  have  watched  for  the  first  buds  and  the 
first  swallows.  I  won't  mind  the  melting  snow  and  the 
mud.  It 's  so  long  since  I  Ve  seen  clean  country  mud. 
I  want  to  smell  it." 

"  You  don't  know  how  bleak  the  Hill  can  be  before 
the  spring  comes,"  objected  Mrs.  Lansing. 

"  Will  it  be  any  bleaker  with  me  there  than  when 
you  were  alone  ?  "  asked  Alix. 

Mrs.  Lansing  came  over  to  her  and  kissed  her.  "  No, 
dear,"  she  said. 


CHAPTEK  X 

IN  the  squalid  Hotel  d'Europe  Gerry  occupied  a  large 
room  that  overlooked  the  quay.  Even  if  there  had 
been  a  better  hotel  in  town  he  would  not  have  moved. 
Here  he  looked  out  on  a  scene  of  never-ceasing  move- 
ment and  color.  The  setting  changed  with  the  varying 
light.  The  false  rains  of  the  midsummer  season  came 
up  in  black  horses  of  cloud  driven  by  a  furious 
wind.  They  passed  with  a  whirl  and  a  veritable  clatter 
of  heavy  drops  hurled  against  the  earth  in  a  splendid 
volley.  The  long  strip  of  the  quay  emptied  at  the 
first  v,Tet  shot.  The  tatterdemalion  crowd  invaded  every 
doorway  and  nook  of  shelter  with  screams  and  laughter. 
Then  the  sun  again,  and  back  came  the  throng  to  the 
fresh-washed  quay. 

At  night,  life  was  still  there.  Boatmen  slept  face 
down  on  the  stones.  Long,  lugger-rigged  craft  crawled 
heavily  by  on  the  outward  tide.  Smaller  boats,  their 
lateen  rigging  creaking  with  every  puff  of  air,  slipped 
by  them,  frailer  but  more  eager  to  face  the  dangers  of 
the  seas  crashing  beyond  the  reef.  Last  and  most 
wonderful  of  all  came  the  fleet  of  tiny  catamarans, — 
five  long  poles  pinned  together  and  a  centerboard. 
Above,  a  boomless  sail  towering  to  a  point.  On  such 
flimsy  contraptions  did  the  little  brown  fishermen  head 
for  the  deep  sea,  far  out  of  sight  of  land,  full  of  an 

66 


HOME  67 

unquestioning  faith  in  the  landward  hreeze  at  night 
to  bring  them  home. 

They  did  not  love  work,  these  men,  but  they  loved  the 
long  loafing  after  a  good  haul.  As  on  the  sea  so  on  land. 
Throughout  the  great,  filthy,  stuccoed  city  to  its  wide- 
spread, muddy  skirts,  where  mud-walled,  grass-thatched 
houses  dotted  a  hundred  twining  valleys,  nobody  worked 
for  a  competence.  They  worked  for  their  daily  bread 
and  when  that  was  assured  they  turned  with  light  hearts 
to  cigarettes  and  the  juice  of  the  cane  —  time-servers 
who  denied  the  very  existence  of  their  overload. 

Gerry  was  not  lonely.  He  wandered  interested 
through  all  the  straggling  city.  Its  bridges ;  its  twisted 
lines  of  bright-colored  houses ;  its  stenches ;  its  ludicrous 
street-cars  drawn  by  jack-rabbit  mules  or  puffy  minia- 
ture steam-engines;  its  wonderful  suburbs  where  great, 
many-windowed  houses  raised  their  tiled  roofs  above 
long  blank  walls,  glass-crested  and  overhung  with  riot- 
ing hibiscus,  climbing  fuchsia  and  blazing  bougainvillea 
and,  looming  above  all,  the  cool  black  domes  of  giant 
mango  trees, —  these  things  gave  him  a  thousand  new 
and  delicate  sensations.  He  was  a  discoverer,  a  Martian 
come  to  earth,  and  he  forgot  to  look  back. 

When  he  was  too  lazy  to  go  to  the  city  he  sat  in  the 
precarious  balcony  of  his  room  and  watched  the  city 
come  to  him.  The  long  quay  with  its  huge  plane  trees 
was  the  little  maelstrom  of  the  city's  life.  It  was  not 
the  market  but,  nevertheless,  here  one  could  buy  any- 
thing from  a  gaited  saddle  horse  to  a  queen  ant  dressed 
up  as  a  doll.  Piles  of  fruit  dotted  the  shade.  Golden 
pineapples  lay  in  a  pool  of  their  own  juice.  The  giant 


68  HOME 

manga  rosa,  largest,  most  beautiful  and  most  tasteless  of 
mangoes,  nestled  in  banana  leaves  twisted  to  form  a 
basket,  its  cheeks  of  glowing  pink  turned  up  to  catch 
the  eye  of  the  ignorant  or  the  devotee  of  beauty  without 
worth.  Lesser  mangoes  were  heaped  in  pyramids  on 
the  bare  stones.  Around  these  gathered  connoisseurs, 
barefooted,  bareheaded  and  with  no  more  clothes  than 
the  law  demands  but  each  provided  with  a  long  pointed 
knife,  deftly  handled.  Land  of  the  Knife,  the  more 
temperate  sections  of  the  South  had  named  this  sister 
state.  Lion  of  the  North  they  called  themselves  and 
cheerfully  supported  a  prison  island  where  four  hundred 
of  their  fellows  were  in  durance  for  murder. 

Threading  through  piles  of  fruit  and  the  trays  of 
vendors  of  a  dozen  forms  of  mandioc  came  a  cow  with 
her  calf  tied  to  her  tail.  A  shrewd  Portuguese  attended 
her.  Customers  got  their  milk  fresh  but  it  was  mostly 
foam.  A  drove  of  turkeys  in  charge  of  a  man  with  a 
whip  passed  by.  Chickens  in  wicker  baskets  slung  at 
the  ends  of  a  pole ;  parrots  in  hundreds,  sure  bait  for  the 
sailor's  morey;  trays  of  stuffed  humming-birds;  jars  of 
dried  green  beetles;  marmosets,  monkeys,  macaws, 
toucans,  snakes,  a  captive  racoon,  each  in  turn  held 
Gerry  for  its  allotted  time. 

The  better  classes,  Brazilians  dressed  as  though  they 
had  stepped  off  the  boulevards  of  Paris  and  linen-clad 
merchants  of  half-a-dozen  nations,  did  not  interest  him. 
They  were  merely  familiar  background  to  the  things 
that  were  new. 

Gerry  missed  his  club  but  for  that  he  found  a  substi- 
tute. Cluny's,  next  door  to  the  hotel,  was  a  strange  hall 


HOME  69 

of  convivial  pleasure.  A  massive  square  door,  whose 
masonry  centuries  had  hardened  and  blackened  to  stone, 
gave  on  to  a  long  hallway  that  ended  in  a  wider  dungeon. 
Here  stood  a  bar  and  half-a-dozen  teak  tables.  The 
floor  was  all  of  stone  flags. 

The  clientele  had  the  cleavage  of  oil  and  water.  One 
section  stood  to  their  drink  at  the  bar,  had  it  and  went 
out.  The  other  sat  to  their  glasses  at  the  tables  and  sat 
late.  Among  these  was  a  pale  thin  man  of  about 
Gerry's  age  with  a  mouth  slightly  twisted  to  humor  until 
toward  evening  drink  loosened  it  to  mere  weakness. 
One  afternoon  he  nodded  to  Gerry  and  Gerry  left  the 
bar  for  the  tables.  After  that  they  sat  together.  The 
man  was  an  American  —  the  American  Consul.  Gerry 
liked  him,  pitied  him,  and  forgot  to  pity  himself.  One 
night  he  invited  the  Consul  to  his  room.  They  sat  in 
the  balcony,  a  bottle  of  whisky  and  a  syphon  between 
them.  Gerry  started  to  put  his  glass  on  the  rail. 

"  Don't  do  it,"  said  the  Consul  with  his  twisted  smile, 
"  it  might  carry  away."  He  went  on  more  seriously. 
"  It 's  rotten.  The  whole  place  is  rotten.  There  's  a 
blight  on  the  men  and  the  women  and  on  the  children. 
God!" 

Gerry  put  down  his  glass  untouched.  "Why  don't 
you  go  home  ?  " 

The  Consul  took  a  long  drink,  eyed  the  empty  glass 
and  spoke  into  it.  "  I  used  to  think  just  like  that. 
'  Why  don't  you  go  home  ? '  I  used  to  think  I  could  go 
home  —  that  it  was  just  a  question  of  buying  a  ticket 
and  climbing  aboard  a  liner.  But  — "  he  broke  off  and 
glanced  at  Gerry  as  he  refilled  his  glass. 


70  HOME 

"  But  what  ?  "  said  Gerry. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Consul,  "  1 'm  just  drunk  enough  to 
tell  you.  I  'm  only  proud  in  the  mornings  before  I  'm 
thoroughly  waked  up.  I  used  to  drive  a  pen  for  a 
Western  daily  at  twenty-five  dollars  a  week.  It  was 
good  pay  and  I  married  on  it.  I  and  the  girl,  we  lived 
like  the  corn-fed  hogs  of  our  native  state.  Life  was 
one  sunshine  and  when  the  baby  came  we  joined  hands 
and  said  good-by  to  sorrow  forever.  Then  her  people 
got  busy  and  landed  me  this  job.  The  pay  was  three 
thousand  and  if  you  want  to  see  how  big  three  thousand 
dollars  a  year  can  look,  just  go  and  stand  behind  any  old 
kind  of  plow  in  Kansas.  I  jumped  at  it.  We  sold 
out  our  little  outfit  and  raked  up  just  enough  to  see  me 
out  here.  The  girl  and  the  kid  went  to  visit  her  people. 
I  was  to  save  up  out  of  the  first  quarter's  pay  and  send 
for  them.  That  was  three  years  ago." 

He  stopped,  plunged  in  thought.  Gerry  said  nothing 
but  lit  a  long  cigar.  The  Consul  went  on.  "  The  price 
of  a  lunch  here  would  give  me  three  squares  at  home 
and  I  could  support  the  family  for  a  month  on  the 
price  of  a  suit  of  clothes.  But  even  so,  I  could  have 
sent  the  money  if  I  had  been  somebody's  clerk.  Some- 
how, we  don't  realize  at  home  what  position  means 
abroad.  Little  humdrum  necessities,  food  and  clothing, 
the  few  drinks  of  the  evening  after  the  day's  work  with 
which  every  man  in  the  tropics  braces  mind  and  body 
and  no  harm  done,  these  commonplace  things  and  the 
decency  in  appearances  that  any  official  must  keep  up, 
they  made  that  big  three  thousand  look  like  a  snowball 
in  summer.  Try  ?  I  did  try.  But  I  could  n't  run  to 


HOME  71 

a  dozen  suits  of  whites  and  twice  as  many  shirts.  I  got 
to  wearing  a  collar  for  two  days  as  well.  And  let  me 
tell  you  that  when  you  're  among  the  clean  in  the  tropics, 
that 's  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

"  They  could  n't  understand  it  at  home.  First  came 
surprise,  then  scolding,  then  just  plain  pleading.  That 
did  for  me.  I  left  my  place  at  the  bar  in  Cluny's  and 
took  a  seat  at  the  tables.  I  Ve  sat  there  for  two  years 
and  nobody  ever  takes  my  chair.  They  call  it  the  Amer- 
ican Consulate. 

"  I  Ve  still  got  to  tell  you  the  worst.  Just  to  speak 
English  here  makes  you  a  member  of  a  clan.  The 
people  I  'd  made  friends  with,  and  some  that  I  had  n't, 
took  up  a  purse  for  me.  Enough  to  cover  my  ticket  and 
a  tidy  sum  besides.  They  'd  done  it  before.  Irish, 
Scotch,  English  or  American,  it  was  all  one  to  them. 
They  gave  an  ex-friend  the  last  chance  of  home.  They 
might  have  known  that  with  me,  if  I  was  far  enough 
gone  to  take  the  money,  I  was  too  far  gone  to  save. 
I  took  it  and  I  went  to  my  room  and  blubbered." 

He  stopped  again.  There  was  a  long  silence ;  then  he 
went  on.  "  And  so  I  took  the  money.  The  steamer 
sailed  without  me.  In  three  days  the  money  was  gone." 

"  You  paid  it  back  ?  "  said  Gerry.  His  face  was  red 
with  shame.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  helped  to  steal  from 
that  relief  fund. 

"  Yes,  I  paid  it  back,"  said  the  Consul,  "  and  they  Ve 
put  it  in  the  bank.  It  ?s  ticketed  for  the  next  American 
that  needs  the  last  chance  of  home.  Those  fellows  — 
they  saw  me  sweat  blood  to  pay,  and  so  they  did  that." 

"  Do  you  see  that  steamer  out  there  ? "  said  Gerry. 


72  HOME 

"  Well,  she  's  bound  for  home.  I  want  to  give  you  the 
chance  that  comes  after  the  last  chance.  I  want  you 
to  let  me  send  you  home." 

The  Consul  looked  around.  His  pendulous  lip 
twisted  into  a  smile.  "  So  you  took  all  that  talk  for  the 
preamble  to  a  touch !  " 

"  No,  I  did  n't,"  said  Gerry  indignantly. 

"  Well,  well,  never  mind,"  said  the  Consul. 
"  There  's  nothing  left  to  go  back  to  and  there  's  noth- 
ing left  to  go  back.  That  little  account  in  the  bank  and 
what  it  may  do  for  some  poor  devil  is  the  only  monu- 
ment I  '11  ever  build." 

The  whisky  bottle  was  almost  empty  but  Gerry's 
glass  was  still  untouched.  The  Consul  pointed  at  it. 
"  You  can  still  leave  it  alone  ?  I  don't  know  where  you 
come  from,  or  what  you  're  loafing  in  this  haven  of  time- 
servers  for,  but  1 7m  going  to  give  you  a  bit  of  advice. 
You  take  that  steamer  yourself." 

Gerry  colored.  "  I  can't,"  he  stammered.  "  There 's 
nothing  left  for  me  either  to  go  home  to."  He  said 
nothing  more.  The  Consul  had  suddenly  turned 
drowsy. 


CHAPTEE  XI 

ALMOST  a  month  had  passed  since  Gerry  landed  on 
his  Lethean  shore,  and  it  had  served  him  well. 
But  that  night  on  the  balcony  woke  him  up.  The  world 
seemed  to  have  time-servers  in  small  regard.  First 
Alix  and  now  this  consul  chap.  Gerry  began  to  think 
of  his  mother.  He  strolled  over  to  the  cable  station. 
The  offices  were  undergoing  repairs.  The  ground  floor 
was  unfurnished  save  for  a  table  and  one  chair.  In 
the  chair  sat  a  chocolate-colored  employee  with  a  long 
bamboo  on  the  floor  beside  him.  Gerry's  curiosity  was 
aroused.  He  went  in  and  wrote  his  message  to  his 
mother  —  just  a  few  words  telling  her  he  was  all  right. 
The  chocolate  gentleman  folded  the  message,  slipped  it 
into  the  split  end  of  the  bamboo  and  stuck  it  up  through 
a  hole  in  the  ceiling  to  the  floor  above.  Gerry  smiled 
and  then  laughed  at  the  gravity  with  which  his  smile  was 
received.  The  man  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 
These  English  were  all  mad  and  discourteous.  What 
was  there  to  laugh  at  in  a  man  at  work  ? 

Gerry  went  out  and  rambled  over  the  city.  Night 
came  on.  He  was  restless.  He  wished  he  had  not  sent 
the  message.  It  was  forming  itself  into  a  link.  He 
dined  badly  at  a  restaurant  and  then  wandered  back  to 
the  quay.  Arriving  steamers  were  posted  on  a  black- 
board under  a  street  lamp.  The  mail  from  New  York 

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74  HOME 

was  due  tomorrow.  The  Consul's  papers  would  be  full 
of  the  latest  New  York  society  scandal  —  his  scandal. 
He  went  to  his  room  and  sat  on  the  balcony  watching 
the  varied  craft  preparing  to  drift  out  on  the  tide.  Sud- 
denly he  got  up  and  went  down  to  the  quay. 

A  long,  raking  craft  was  taking  on  its  meager  provi- 
sions. Gerry  engaged  its  captain  in  a  pantomime  parley. 
The  boat  was  bound  for  Penedo  to  take  on  cotton. 
Gerry  decided  to  go  to  Penedo.  Two  of  the  crew  went 
back  with  him  to  get  his  baggage.  The  hotel  was  closed. 
Gerry  was  the  only  guest  and  he  had  his  key.  He  had 
paid  his  weekly  bill  that  day,  so  there  was  no  need  to 
wake  any  one  up.  In  half  an  hour  he  and  his  belong- 
ings were  stowed  on  the  deck  of  the  Josephina  and  she 
was  drifting  slowly  down  to  the  bar. 

Four  days  later  they  were  off  the  mouth  of  the  San 
Francisco.  They  doubled  in  and  tacked  their  way  up 
to  Penedo.  There  was  no  life  in  Penedo.  It  was 
desolate  and  lonely  compared  with  the  Hotel  d'Europe 
and  the  lively  quay ;  so  when  a  funny  little  stern-wheeler 
started  up  the  river  on  its  weekly  trip  to  Piranhas,  Gerry 
went  with  it. 

Piranhas  was  a  town  of  mud  plastered  against  a  bar- 
ren cliff.  It  made  no  pretense  to  being  alive.  Here 
a  dead  man  could  live  in  peace  with  his  surroundings. 
From  fifteen  miles  up  the  river  came  the  rumble  of  the 
mighty  Paulo  Affonso  Falls,  singing  a  perpetual 
requiem.  Gerry  established  himself  in  a  hovel  of  an 
inn  that  even  in  this  far  retreat  did  not  dare  call  itself 
hotel. 

The  only  industry  in  Piranhas  was  the  washing  of 


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clothes  and  the  women  did  that.  Fish  were  caught  in 
great  quantities  but  fishing  was  not  an  industry.  Here, 
too,  man  fished  only  when  he  was  hungry. 

Gerry  chartered  a  ponderous  canoe.  At  first  he  had 
a  man  to  paddle  him  up  and  down  and  sometimes  across 
the  wide  half-mile  of  water.  But  before  long  he 
learned  to  handle  the  thing  himself.  The  heavy  work 
soon  trimmed  his  splendid  muscles  into  shape.  He  sup- 
plied the  hostelry  with  a  variety  of  fish. 

One  morning  he  woke  earlier  than  usual.  The  wave 
of  life  was  running  high  in  his  veins.  He  sprang  up 
and,  still  in  his  pajamas,  hurried  out  for  his  morning 
swim.  The  break  of  day  was  gloriously  chilly.  A  cool 
breeze,  hurrying  up  from  the  sea,  was  steadily  banking 
up  the  mist  that  hung  over  the  river.  Gerry  sprang  into 
his  canoe  and  pushed  off.  He  drove  its  heavy  length 
up  stream,  not  in  the  teeth  of  the  current,  for  no  man 
could  do  that,  but  skirting  the  shore,  seizing  on  the  help 
of  every  eddy  and  keeping  an  eye  out  for  the  green 
swirling  mound  that  meant  a  pinnacle  of  rock  just  short 
of  the  surface.  He  went  further  up  the  river  than  ever 
before.  His  muscles  were  keyed  to  the  struggle.  He 
passed  the  last  jutting  bend  that  the  best  boatmen  on  the 
river  could  master  and  found  himself  in  a  bay  protected 
by  a  spit  of  sand,  rock-tipped  and  foam-tossed  where  it 
reached  the  river's  channel.  From  this  point  the  river 
was  a  chaos  of  jagged  rocks  that  fought  the  mighty  tide 
hurled  from  the  falls  still  miles  above. 

Gerry  ran  the  canoe  upon  the  shore  and  stripped.  He 
stepped  on  to  the  spit  of  sand.  In  that  moment  just 
to  live  was  enough.  He  stretched  his  arms  out  and, 


76  HOME 

looking  down,  watched  the  fine  texture  of  his  body  turn 
to  goose-flesh.  Then  the  sun  broke  out  and  helped  the 
wind  clear  the  last  bank  of  mist  from  the  river.  Gerry's 
body  took  on  a  rosy  glow.  He  had  never  seen  it  like 
that  before  and  as  he  looked  a  sharp  cry  broke  on  his 
astonished  ears. 

Almost  at  the  end  of  the  tongue  of  sand  stood  a  girl. 
A  white  cotton  robe  was  at  her  feet.  Her  hair  was  blow- 
ing around  her  slim  shoulders.  Over  one  of  them  she 
gazed,  startled,  at  Gerry.  He  drew  back  horribly  con- 
fused and  mumbling  apologies  that  she  could  not  have 
understood  even  if  she  could  have  heard  them.  Then 
she  plunged  with  a  clean  long  dive  into  the  river.  But 
before  she  plunged  she  laughed.  Gerry  heard  the  laugh. 
With  an  answering  cry  he  hurled  himself  into  the  water 
and  swam  as  he  had  never  swum  before. 

The  girl  had  further  to  go  across  the  little  bay,  but 
she  could  beat  Gerry  swimming  and  she  did.  Only  she 
failed  to  use  her  head  and,  when  she  found  bottom, 
started  to  wade.  Wading  is  slow  work  in  water  waist 
high.  Gerry  stuck  to  his  long  powerful  stroke.  As  the 
girl  reached  the  bank  the  strong  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
closed  on  her  bare  ankle. 


CHAPTEE  XII 

GERRY'S  cablegram  to  his  mother  was  forwarded 
to  Red  Hill  on  the  very  day  that  the  Judge  had 
gone  up  to  tell  them  that  no  trace  could  be  found  of  the 
missing  man.  The  Judge  was  more  down-hearted  than 
ever  over  Gerry's  disappearance  and  when  he  found  the 
two  women  radiating  happiness  and  excitement  his 
heart  sank  lower  stilL 

"  I  have-n't  any  good  news,"  he  said  ruefully  before 
he  alighted. 

"  Tease  him,"  said  Alix  in  a  low  tone  to  Mrs.  Lan- 
sing. 

But  Mrs.  Lansing  had  found  new  lines  in  the  Judge's 
tired  face  and  she  whispered  back,  "  I  can't."  She  put 
the  cablegram  in  the  Judge's  hand. 

"  What 's  this  ?  "  he  said  and  read  it.  Then  he  gave 
a  war-whoop,  caught  Alix  around  the  waist  and  kissed 
her. 

The  Firs  were  gay  that  night  —  gay  with  the  joy  of 
happy  people  happily  planning.  In  a  month,  say  at  the 
most,  two  months,  Gerry  could  be  here.  Spring  would 
have  come.  The  Hill  would  be  decked  out  in  full 
regalia  of  leaf  and  blossom.  It  would  be  in  full  com- 
mission to  meet  him.  They  looked  at  Alix  and  Alix 
seemed  to  look  at  herself.  He  would  come  into  his  own 
as  never  before. 

The  Judge  undertook  the  cabling.  He  cabled  Gerry 

77 


78  HOME 

and  the  message  was  reported  undelivered.  Then  he 
cabled  the  American  Consul.  There  followed  a  long 
series  of  messages ;  first  quick  and  hopeful,  then  lagging 
but  not  doubtful,  then  a  wearying  silence  of  weeks,  end- 
ing with  the  inevitable  blow.  Gerry  had  been  traced 
to  the  San  Francisco  river.  The  envoy  sent  on  his  track 
by  the  Judge's  orders  had  reached  Piranhas  to  find  the 
little  town  in  apathetic  wonder  over  the  discovery  of 
Gerry's  canoe  stranded  three  miles  down  the  river.  The 
paddle  was  still  in  the  canoe  and  a  suit  of  pajamas. 
No  further  trace  of  Gerry  had  been  found.  His  body 
had  not  been  recovered.  The  people  said  it  was  not  un- 
usual. He  had  undoubtedly  been  attacked  by  tiger  fish. 
In  that  case  his  bones  would  have  been  stripped  of  flesh. 
It  was  impossible  to  drag  the  great  river. 

The  Judge  hid  in  his  heart  the  harrowing  details.  To 
Mrs.  Lansing  he  told  the  central  fact.  She  was  struck 
dumb  with  grief  and  then  she  thought  of  Alix.  Almost 
hastily  they  decided  that  it  was  not  a  time  to  tell  Alix 
and  during  long  months  they  put  her  off  with  false  news 
of  the  search.  They  carried  it  further  and  further  into 
the  wilds  of  the  subcontinent.  The  country  was  so  vast, 
there  was  no  telling  when  the  messenger  would  finally 
come  up  with  Gerry. 

Alix  bore  the  strain  with  wonderful  patience.  The 
truth  was  that  her  thoughts  were  not  on  Gerry.  Some- 
thing greater  than  Gerry  was  claiming  all  her  faith, — 
all  her  strength  of  body  and  soul.  She  did  not  talk. 
She  was  holding  that  final  communion  with  her  inner- 
most self  with  which  a  woman  dedicates  her  body  to 
pain  and  sacrifice.  Alix  was  not  afraid.  In  those  days 


HOME  ?9 

the  spirit  of  the  race  —  her  race  of  pioneers  —  shone 
from  her  steady  eyes  and  even  put  courage  in  those  about 
her. 

Only  when  the  ordeal  was  over  and  an  heir  to  the 
house  of  Lansing  had  raised  his  lusty  voice  in  apparent 
rage  at  having  been  born  to  so  small  a  kingdom,  did  the 
frail  Alix  of  other  days  come  back.  As  she  lay,  pale 
and  thin,  but  with  the  glorious  light  of  supreme  achieve- 
ment in  her  eyes,  Mrs.  Lansing  went  on  her  knees  beside 
the  bed  and  sobbed,  "  Oh,  Alix,  I  love  you  so,  I  love 
you  so !  " 

Alix  smiled.  Slowly  she  reached  one  hand  over  and 
placed  it  in  Mrs.  Lansing's.  "  You  are  crying  because 
you  are  a  granny  now,"  she  said,  softly,  playfully. 

Then  came  the  day  when  Alix  was  strong  —  strong 
enough.  Mrs.  Lansing  told  her  in  a  choked  voice  what 
they  knew  and  what  every  one  believed.  She  cried 
softly  in  Alix's  arms. 

"  Poor  Mother !  "  said  Alix,  her  lips  against  the  wet 
cheek.  "  How  strong  you  've  been !  How  you  hid  it 
from  me !  What  a  burden  to  carry  in  your  heart,  and 
smile.  But  listen,  dear  Mummy.  You  are  all  wrong. 
Perhaps  I  would  not  have  known  it  if  you  had  told  me 
—  then  —  but  I  know  it  now.  Gerry  is  not  dead. 
There  is  no  river  that  can  drown  Gerry." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lansing,  frightened,  "  you 
must  not  think  that.  It 's  always  the  best  swimmers 
that  risk  the  most." 

"  It  is  n't  that  he  can  swim,"  said  Alix.  Her  eyes 
turned  slowly  till  they  rested  on  her  son.  Her  bosom 
swelled  at  the  memory  of  the  travail  —  the  terrible  tra- 


80  HOME 

vail  that  she  had  borne,  not  for  the  child  alone,  nor  for 
Gerry  alone,  but  for  them  both.  "  Swimming  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it.  Somehow  I  know  that  Gerry  is  all 
right,  somewhere  on  this  little  world.  Only,  dear,"  and 
here  her  voice  faltered  and  her  eyes  shone  with  tears, 
"  this  little  world  seems  mighty  big  when  hearts  are  far 
apart." 

Alix  clung  to  her  belief.  So  strong  was  her  faith  that 
Mrs.  Lansing  became  infected,  but  the  Judge  held  out 
against  them.  "  My  heart  is  with  you,"  he  said,  at  the 
end  of  months,  "  but  my  head  won't  turn.  A  naked 
man  even  in  South  America  would  have  caused  remark. 
Why  should  n't  he  have  come  back  for  his  clothes,  for  his 
money  ?  After  all,  he  was  n't  a  fugitive  from  justice. 
He  was  a  man  wandering  over  the  earth  in  pursuit  of 
a  mere  whim  and  a  whim  does  n't  last  forever." 

Alix  interrupted  him.  "  Judge,  I  have  never  been 
angry  with  you.  We  all  owe  you  too  much.  But  if  you 
ever  say  '  was  '  about  Gerry  again  —  "  She  stopped 
and  bit  her  lip  but  her  eyes  spoke  for  her. 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  the  Judge  and  only  his  color 
showed  that  he  was  hurt,  "  don't  be  angry  with  me.  It 
shall  be  as  you  say.  I  Ve  only  been  trying  to  save  you 
from  years  of  weary  waiting.  If  you  have  the  courage 
to  wait  for  sorrow,  I  shall  wait  too." 

Alix  kissed  him.  "  There,"  she  said,  "  I  'm  sorry  I 
was  rough." 

"  You !  rough ! "  laughed  the  Judge.  Then  he 
jumped  up.  "  I  'm  forgetting  my  duties.  I  have  a 
guest  of  my  very  own  over  at  Maple  House  and  I  must 
go  to  him." 


HOME  81 

A  few  weeks  before,  the  Hon.  Percy  Collingeford  had 
looked  up  the  Judge.  It  was  as  much  a  pleasure  to  the 
young  man  as  a  duty  he  owed  to  his  father,  whose 
friend  the  Judge  had  been  for  many  years. 

Collingeford  was  no  stranger  to  America  but  he  knew 
far  more  about  dodging  arroyos  in  New  Mexico  on  a 
cow  pony  than  he  did  about  dodging  the  open  trenches 
and  debris  of  Fifth  Avenue  on  the  trail  of  a  tea-party. 
He  was  an  Englishman,  a  younger  son  with  enough 
money  to  put  him  above  the  remittance  class,  and  he 
was  possessed  of  far  more  intelligence  than  he  had  been 
born  with,  for,  from  his  youth  up,  he  had  sought  out 
experience  in  many  places.  He  came  back  from  the 
Klondike  with  more  money  than,  he  needed  for  his 
passage  but  only  a  few  kindred  spirits  knew  that  he  had 
made  it  hammering  the  piano  in  The  Fallen  Star  of 
Hope.  He  had  the  English  gentleman's  common  creed : 
ride  straight,  shoot  straight,  tub  often  and  talk  the 
King's  English.  That  creed  fulfilled,  nothing  else 
seemed  to  worry  him. 

He  was  dining  with  the  Judge  at  the  club  one  night 
when  the  name  of  Wayne  —  Alan  Wayne  —  floated  over 
occasionally  from  a  neighboring  table.  Later  as  they 
sat  over  their  coffee  and  cigars  Collingeford  said  ab- 
ruptly, "  I  know  a  chap  named  Wayne." 

"So?"  said  the  Judge. 

"  Heard  those  people  mention  Alan  Wayne,"  ex- 
plained Collingeford.  "  I  wondered  if  it  was  the  same 
one  —  Ten  Percent  Wayne  of  Africa." 

"  That 's  the  one,"  said  the  Judge  and  watched  Col- 
lingeford's  face. 


82  HOME 

"  Hum,"  said  Collingeford.  "  When  I  saw  Wayne  lie 
was  in  shirt  sleeves  and  a  battered  sun  helmet.  There 
are  some  men  that  won't  shake  hands  with  him,  but 
I  'm  not  one  of  them." 

It  was  then  that  the  Judge  decided  to  take  Collinge- 
ford to  Maple  House  for  over  Sunday. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

GERRY  LANSING  was  sitting  alone  in  the  shade 
of  a  bush,  his  knees  gathered  in  his  arms  and  his 
head  bowed  down.  Great  quivering  sighs  that  were 
almost  sobs  were  shaking  his  strong  body.  In  one  ter- 
rific swirl  life  had  wrenched  him  from  the  moorings  of 
generations,  tossed  him  high  and  dropped  him,  broken. 
He  had  after  all  been  only  a  weakling,  waiting  to  fall 
at  the  first  temptation.  It  seemed  as  if  it  could  not  be 
true.  The  sun  had  only  just  risen.  The  mist  still  hung 
in  the  air  in  wisps.  It  was  still  early  morning  —  the 
morning  that  he  had  found  so  glorious  —  the  morning 
in  which  just  to  live  had  seemed  enough.  But  it  was 
true.  Between  the  moment  when  he  had  plunged  from 
the  sandspit  and  the  moment  when  he  and  the  girl  had 
stood  on  the  river  bank  and  laughed  together  to  see 
the  canoe,  worked  adrift  by  the  eddy,  swirl  out  into  the 
river  and  away,  eons  had  passed.  In  that  laughing 
moment  he  had  stood  primeval  man  in  a  primeval  world. 
With  the  drops  of  water  from  the  river  he  had  flicked 
off  the  bonds  it  had  taken  centuries  to  forge.  And  now 
the  storm  was  past,  the  elation  over,  and  his  truant 
conscience  returned  to  stand  dismayed  before  the  devas- 
tation of  so  short  a  lapse. 

The  girl,  dressed  in  a  homespun  cotton  robe  belted  at 

the  waist,  came  back  down  a  half-hidden  path,  shyly 

83 


84:  HOME 

at  first  and  then  with  awe  to  see  him  weeping.  She 
tossed  him  a  cotton  jumper  and  trousers  and  then  drew 
back  and  waited  for  him  in  the  path.  He  picked  up 
the  garments  and  looked  at  them.  They  were  such 
simple  clothes  as  he  had  seen  laborers  wearing.  He  rose 
slowly  to  his  feet,  dressed  and  followed  the  girl. 

She  led  him  along  the  path  through  the  brush  and  out 
into  a  little  valley  made  up  of  abandoned  cane  and  rice 
bottoms.  In  the  center  was  a  slight  elevation,  too  low  to 
be  called  a  hill,  and  on  it  was  an  old  plantation  house, 
white  stucco  once,  now  sadly  weather-streaked,  its  tiles 
green-black  with  the  moss  of  years. 

She  pointed  to  the  house  and  then  to  herself  and 
smiled.  He  understood  the  pantomime  and  nodded. 
When  they  reached  the  house  a  withered  and  wrinkled 
little  woman  came  out  to  the  arched  veranda  to  meet 
them.  She  looked  Gerry  over  shrewdly  and  then  held 
out  her  hand.  He  shook  it  listlessly.  They  walked 
through  a  long  dividing  hall.  On  each  side  were  large 
rooms,  empty,  save  one  where  a  big  bed,  a  wash-stand, 
and  an  old  bureau  with  mildewed  glass,  were  grouped 
like  an  oasis  in  a  desert.  They  reached  the  kitchen.  It 
was  evidently  the  living-room  of  the  house.  A  ham- 
mock cut  off  one  corner.  Chairs  were  drawn  up  to 
a  rough,  uncovered  table.  A  stove  was  built  into 
the  masonry  and  a  cavernous  oven  gaped  from  the 
massive  wall. 

At  the  stove  was  an  old  negress,  making  coffee  with 
shaky  deliberation.  On  the  floor  sat  an  old  darky  clad 
only  from  his  waist  down  in  such  trousers  as  Gerry  was 
wearing,  except  that  they  were  soiled  and  tattered.  He 


HOME  85 

looked  up  and  fastened  his  eyes  on  Gerry  and  then 
struggled  to  his  feet.  Dim  recollections  of  some  bygone 
•white  master  brought  a  gleam  into  his  bleary  eyes.  He 
raised  his  hand  in  the  national  gesture  of  child  to  parent, 
slave  to  master.  "  Blessing,  Master,  blessing."  Gerry 
had  learned  the  meaning  of  the  quaint  custom.  "  God 
bless  thee,"  he  answered  in  badly  jumbled  Portuguese. 
The  girl  and  the  wrinkled  little  woman  looked  at  him, 
surprised,  and  then  smiled  at  each  other  as  women  smile 
at  the  first  steps  of  a  child. 

They  made  him  sit  down  at  the  table  and  placed  be- 
fore him  crisp  rusks  of  mandioc  flour  and  steaming 
coffee  whose  splendid  aroma  triumphed  over  the  sordid- 
ness  of  the  scene  and  through  the  nostrils  reached  the 
palate  with  anticipatory  touch.  It  was  sweetened  with 
dark,  pungent  syrup  and  was  served  black  in  a  capacious 
bowl,  as  though  one  could  not  drink  too  deeply  of  the 
elixir  of  life. 

Gerry  ate  ravenously  and  sipped  the  coffee,  at  first 
sparingly,  then  greedily.  The  old  negress  fluttered 
nervously  about  the  stove,  nursing  its  inadequate  fire  of 
charcoal.  Her  eyes  were  big  with  wonder  at  the 
capacity  of  the  white  master.  The  old  negro  had  sunk 
back  to  his  seat  on  the  floor.  The  two  white  women 
stood  and  watched  Gerry.  The  more  he  ate  the  more 
they  urged. 

Gerry  set  down  the  empty  bowl  with  a  sigh.  The 
rusks  had  been  delicious.  Before  the  coffee  the  name 
of  nectar  dwindled  to  impotency.  Its  elixir  rioted  in 
his  veins.  At  the  sigh  the  girl  had  deftly  rolled  a  cig- 
arette in  a  bit  of  corn  husk,  scraped  thin  as  paper. 


86  HOME 

Now  she  slipped  it  into  his  fingers.  The  old  negress 
picked  up  a  live  coal  and,  passing  it  from  shaky  hand 
to  shaky  hand,  deposited  it  on  his  plate.  Gerry  lit  the 
cigarette.  With  the  first  long  contented  whiff  he  smiled. 
The  smile  brought  stinging  recollection.  With  a  frown 
he  threw  away  the  cigarette  and  rose  from  the  table. 
"  The  brute  is  fed  and  laughs,"  he  said  aloud  and  strode 
from  the  room.  The  girl  and  the  little  wrinkled  woman 
looked  at  each  other  in  dismay.  They  seemed  to  sense 
the  unintelligible  words.  The  old  darky  crawled  across 
the  floor  and  possessed  himself  of  the  cigarette. 

Gerry  went  to  seat  himself  on  the  steps  of  the  veranda. 
Before  him  stretched  the  fallow  valley,  beyond  it 
gleamed  the  black  line  of  the  rushing  river.  To  the 
right  were  the  ruins  of  a  sugar  mill  and  stables.  To 
the  left  the  debris  that  once  had  been  slaves'  quarters. 
The  fields  still  bore  the  hummocks,  in  rough  alignment, 
that  told  the  story  of  past  years  fruitful  in  cane.  All 
was  waste,  all  was  ruin. 

The  girl  slipped  to  a  seat  beside  him.  She  rolled  a 
fresh  cigarette  and  then  shyly  laid  a  small  brown  hand 
on  his  arm.  Gerry  looked  at  her.  Her  big  brown  eyes 
were  sorrowful  and  pleading.  She  held  out  the  cigarette 
with  a  little  shrug  that  deprecated  the  smallness  of  the 
offering. 

Gerry  felt  a  twinge  of  remorse.  He  patted  the  hand 
that  lay  on  his  arm,  smiled,  and  took  the  cigarette.  The 
girl's  face  lit  up.  She  called  and  again  the  negress 
brought  fire.  This  time  Gerry  smoked  gravely.  The 
girl  sat  on  beside  him.  Her  hand  lay  in  his. 

So  they  sat  until  the  sun  passed  the  zenith  and,  slip- 


HOME  87 

ping  over  the  eaves,  fell  like  fire  on  their  bare  feet. 
Gerry  stood  up,  pointed  to  himself  and  then  down  the 
river  to  the  town.  The  girl  shook  her  head.  She  made 
him  understand  that  he  was  cut  off  from  the  town  by 
an  impassable  tributary  to  the  great  river  —  that  he 
would  have  to  make  a  long  detour  inland.  Then  she 
swept  her  hand  from  the  sun  to  the  horizon  to  show 
him  that  the  day  was  too  far  gone  for  the  journey. 

He  was  not  much  concerned.  An  apathy  seized  him 
at  the  thought  of  going  back.  He  felt  as  though  shame 
had  left  some  visible  scar  on  his  countenance  that  men 
must  see  and  read.  As  he  stood,  thoughtful  and  de- 
tached, the  girl  grasped  his  arm  with  both  her  hands  and 
drew  his  attention  to  her.  Then  she  gave  one  sweep  of 
her  arm  that  embraced  all  the  ruin  of  house  and  mill 
and  fields.  She  pointed  to  herself.  He  understood: 
these  things  were  hers.  Then  she  folded  her  hands  and 
with  a  gesture  of  surrender  laid  them  in  his. 

It  was  eloquent.  There  was  no  mistaking  her  mean- 
ing. Gerry  was  touched.  He  held  both  her  clasped 
hands  in  one  of  his  and  put  his  arm  around  her 
shoulders.  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  his  face  for  the  answer. 
Once  more  Gerry's  eyes  wandered  over  all  that  ruin. 
After  all,  he  thought,  why  not  ?  Why  not  bury  his  own 
ruin  here  in  company?  But  she  read  no  decision  in 
his  face  though  she  watched  it  long.  What  she  saw 
was  debate  and  for  the  time  it  satisfied  her. 

Gerry  all  that  afternoon  was  very  silent  and  thought- 
ful —  silent  because  there  was  no  one  he  could  talk  to, 
thoughtful  because  the  idea  the  girl  had  put  into  his 
head  was  taking  shape,  aided  by  a  long  chain  of  circum- 


88  HOME 

stances.  He  looked  back  over  his  covered  trail.  If  he 
had  been  some  shrewd  fugitive  from  justice  he  could  not 
have  planned  it  better.  His  sudden  flight  without  visit- 
ing his  home,  his  failure  to  buy  a  ticket,  the  subornation 
of  the  purser  with  its  assurance  of  silence  as  to  his 
presence  or  destination,  all  that  had  been  wiped  out  by 
his  cablegram  to  his  mother.  But  then  fate  had  stepped 
in  again  and  once  more  blotted  out  the  trail.  Gerry 
pictured  the  finding  of  the  canoe  and  paddle  with  his 
pajamas  miles  away  from  the  spot  where  he  had  left 
them.  Supposing  there  were  any  search  for  him  from 
home,  and  there  was  no  reason  to  believe  there  would 
be  since  he  had  cabled  reassurance  to  his  mother,  it 
would  come  up  against  a  blank  wall  with  the  tracing 
of  the  canoe,  the  pajamas  and  the  paddle.  They  formed 
a  clue  which  could  lead  to  but  one  conclusion. 

His  mother  would  have  understood  his  flight  from  the 
disgrace  that  undoubtedly  had  flaunted  itself  in  every 
one  of  his  familiar  haunts.  Secure  in  the  retreat  of 
Red  Hill  she  had  probably  truly  pictured  him  fleeing 
from  the  memory  of  Alix  and  the  fall  of  the  name  of 
Lansing.  Then  there  was  the  cablegram  to  reassure  her. 
In  all  probability  there  had  been  no  search,  but  even  if 
there  were,  it  must  in  the  end  come  up  against  this  new 
obliteration  of  the  trail !  The  fact  recurred  again  and 
again  in  his  thoughts.  In  the  terrible  hour  after  the 
scene  of  Alix's  surrender  to  Alan  he  had  longed  to  hide 
from  his  world,  from  his  mother  and  from  himself. 
Some  genius  had  heard  his  wish.  The  old  Gerry  Lan- 
sing was  dead.  Even  from  himself  the  old  Gerry 
Lansing  had  been  torn  away  in  a  chariot  of  fire.  Pas- 


HOME  89 

sion  had  swirled  its  flame  about  him  and  left  ruin, — 
ashes. 

In  the  cool  of  the  evening  he  looked  about  him.  The 
tiny  world  into  which  he  had  fallen  was  penurious  but 
self-contained.  Such  fabrics  as  there  were,  were  home- 
spun from  the  bolls  of  a  scraggy  patch  of  cotton  bushes. 
The  beans  of  castor  plants,  those  giant  weeds  that  haunt 
all  scenes  of  ruin  in  the  subcontinent,  supplied  oil  for 
feeble  lights  at  night.  A  little  oil  in  a  clay  dish  with 
a  twisted  wick  of  cotton  giving  forth  more  smoke  than 
light  seemed  to  fix  him  in  his  setting  of  prehistoric  man. 
The  rice,  gathered  from  an  enduring  bottom,  cultivated 
by  no  effort  aside  from  the  impassive  rise  and  fall  of 
the  river,  formed  with  mandioc,  the  backbone  of  the 
household's  sustenance.  From  the  outcrops  of  the 
abandoned  cane  fields,  with  the  assistance  of  an  antedi- 
luvian hand-mill  and  an  equally  antiquated  iron  pot, 
they  made  the  black  syrup  that  served  for  sugar.  Salt, 
slightly  alkaline,  was  plentiful.  A  few  cows  and  their 
progeny  lived  in  the  open  and  lived  well,  for,  even  un- 
tilled,  the  lands  of  the  valley  were  rich.  An  occasional 
member  of  the  herd  was  carried  off  to  market  by  the 
old  darky.  The  proceeds  bought  the  very  few  contribu- 
tions of  civilization  necessary  to  the  upkeep  of  the  lenten 
life. 

Gerry  decided.  He  looked  at  the  girl  and  she  ran 
to  him.  He  put  his  arms  around  her  and  gazed  with  a 
sort  of  numbed  emotion  into  her  great  dark  eyes.  Those 
eyes  were  wells  of  simplicity,  love,  fidelity,  but  below 
all  that  there  were  depths  of  unmeasured  and  unmeasur- 
ing  passion  that  gave  all  and  demanded  all. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

COLLINGEFOKD  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  when  he 
saw  what  manner  of  place  was  Maple  House. 
As  they  gathered  around  the  great  table  for  dinner 
he  was  the  only  stranger  and  he  did  not  feel  it.  Nance 
was  there  with  the  faint  smile  of  a  mother  that  has 
just  put  her  children  to  bed.  Charley  Stirling,  teasing 
Clematis,  tried  to  forget  that  Monday  and  the  city  were 
coming  together.  Mrs.  J.  Y.,  with  Collingeford  on  her 
right  and  the  Judge  on  her  left,  held  quiet  sway  over 
the  table  and  nodded  reassuringly  at  the  old  Captain 
who  was  making  gestures  with  his  eyes  to  the  effect  that 
a  whisky  and  soda  should  be  immediately  offered  to  the 
guest.  J.  Y.,  pretty  gray  by  now,  sat  thoughtful,  but 
kindly,  at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  Clem  was  beside 
him. 

It  was  not  until  the  men  were  sitting  alone  after  the 
glass  of  port,  in  which  all  had  drunk  Collingeford's  wel- 
come to  that  house,  that  the  Judge  said  casually,  "  Col- 
lingeford saw  Alan  in  Africa." 

"  Eh !  What  ?  "  said  the  Captain  aroused  to  sudden 
interest.  "  What 's  that  about  Alan  ?  " 

"  I  ran  across  Alan  Wayne  in  Africa,"  said  Collinge- 
ford, smiling.  "  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  about 
it?" 

90 


HOME  91 

ISTance  called  Charley  Stirling  out.  "  You  shirker," 
she  said,  "  come  and  sit  with  me  in  the  hammock." 

"  Collingeford  was  just  going  to  tell  about  meeting 
Alan  in  Africa,"  said  Charley  indignantly.  And  then 
ISTance  said  "  Oh !  "  and  wanted  to  send  him  back  but 
he  would  n't  go. 

"  Yes,"  grunted  the  Captain  in  reply  to  Collingeford's 
question  and  J.  Y.  nodded  as  he  caught  the  young  man's 
eye.  "  Wish  you  would,"  he  said  and  leaned  forward, 
his  elbows  on  the  table. 

Collingeford  was  one  of  those  men  who  are  sensitive 
to  men.  His  vocabulary  did  not  run  to  piffle  but  he 
loved  an  understanding  ear.  He  looked  at  the  Judge's 
keen  but  restful  face,  at  the  Captain's  glaring  eyes,  which 
somehow  had  assumed  a  kindly  glint,  at  J.  Y.'s  rugged 
figure,  suddenly  grown  tense,  and  he  knew  that  Alan 
Wayne  was  near  to  the  hearts  of  these  three.  He 
fingered  his  wine  glass.  "  If  I  was  one  of  those  men," 
he  began,  looking  at  nobody,  "  who  dislike  Ten  Percent 
Wayne  I  would  n't  tell  you  about  him.  But  I  'm  not. 
It  took  me  only  two  hours  to  get  over  hating  him  and 
those  two  hours  were  spent  in  a  broiling  sun  at  the 
wrong  end  of  a  half -finished  bridge. 

"  Prince  Bodsky  and  I  were  on  shikari.  We  were 
headed  home  after  a  long  and  unsuccessful  shoot  in  new 
country  and  we  were  as  sore  and  tired  and  bored  with 
the  life  of  the  wild  as  two  old-timers  ever  get.  On  the 
day  I  'm  telling  you  about  we  were  trekking  up  a  river 
gorge  to  a  crossing.  After  lunch  and  the  long  rest  we 
still  had  ten  miles  to  go  to  cross  and  it  did  n't  help 
things  to  know  that  once  over  we  had  to  come  straight 


92  HOME 

back  on  the  other  side.  During  the  first  hour's  march 
in  the  afternoon  we  heard  the  strangest  sound  that  ever 
those  wilds  gave  forth.  It  was  like  hammering  on  steel 
but  we  refused  to  believe  our  ears  until  a  sudden  curve 
brought  us  bang  up  against  the  indisputable  fact  of  a 
girder-bridge  in  the  throes  of  construction.  Before  the 
thought  of  the  sacrilege  to  the  game  country  —  before 
we  could  see  in  this  noisy  monstrosity  the  root  of  our 
recent  bad  luck  —  came  the  glad  thought  that  we  did  n't 
have  to  do  ten  miles  up  that  gorge  and  ten  back.  We 
would  have  whooped  except  that  men  don't  whoop  in 
Africa  —  it  scares  the  game. 

"  I  said  the  bridge  was  in  the  throes  of  construction. 
It  was  just  that.  Its  two  long  girders,  reaching  from 
brink  to  brink,  with  their  spidery  trusses  hanging  under- 
neath, fairly  swarmed  with  sweating  figures,  and  the 
figures  were  black.  It  was  that  that  brought  us  to  a 
full  stop  and  just  when  our  eyes  were  fixed  with  the 
intensity  of  discovery,  one  of  the  workers  looked  up,  saw 
us,  relaxed  and  gave  the  loud  grunt  which  stands  in 
Landin  for  '  Just  look  at  that ! '  in  English. 

"  The  babbling  and  hammering  around  him  ceased, 
but  while  he  still  stared  at  us,  we  saw  a  veritable  appari- 
tion. A  white  man,  hung  between  heaven  and  the 
depths  of  the  gorge,  was  racing  along  the  top  of  the 
slippery  girder.  His  helmet  blew  off,  hung  poised,  and 
then  plunged  in  long  tacking  sweeps.  The  man  was 
dressed  in  a  cotton  shirt,  white  trousers  and  thick  woolen 
socks.  ISTo  boots.  Of  course,  I  didn't  notice  all  that 
till  afterwards.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a  sjambok. 
Suddenly  the  staring  darky  seemed  to  feel  him  coming 


HOME  93 

but,  before  he  could  turn,  the  sjambok  quirt  came  down 
with  the  clinging  sting  of  hide  on  flesh.  We  saw  the 
blood  spurt.  The  negro  toppled  without  a  cry.  He 
fell  inside,  caught  on  a  truss,  clung,  and  finally  with  a 
struggle  drew  himself  up  on  to  a  stringer.  A  shout  of 
laughter  went  up  from  his  fellows.  Bodsky  and  I  had 
heard  it  often  —  the  laugh  of  the  African  for  his  brother 
in  pain.  And  then  they  fell  to  work  again.  The  black 
with  the  blood  trickling  off  his  back  rested  long  enough 
to  get  his  breath  and  then  climbed  back  to  his  place  on 
the  girder.  He  was  grinning.  Don't  ask  me  to  explain 
it.  Men  have  died  trying  to  explain  Africa. 

"  The  white  man  had  stopped  and  half  turned.  He 
stood,  a  little  straddling,  on  the  girder,  and  switched 
the  sjambok  to  and  fro.  His  eyes  were  blazing.  From 
his  lips  dropped  a  patter  of  all  the  vile  words  in  Lan- 
din,  Swahili  and  half-a-dozen  other  dialects, —  the  words 
that  a  white  man  learns  first  if  he  listens  to  natives. 
The  jargon  seemed  to  incite  the  blacks.  They  worked 
as  clumsily  as  ever  but  harder.  They  started  to  sing,  as 
the  African  does  when  he 's  getting  up  a  special  burst  of 
speed.  Then  the  white  man  walked  off  the  girder  on 
our  side,  out  of  the  way.  '  Now  's  our  time,'  I  whis- 
pered to  Bodsky.  He  shook  his  head  slowly  from  side 
to  side  but  I  was  already  under  way.  I  walked  up  to 
the  white  man  and.  asked  him  if  he  could  let  us  across. 
He  glanced  around  as  if  he  had  n't  seen  our  outfit  till 
that  moment  and  then  he  looked  me  square  in  the  eyes. 
'  We  knock  off  at  six,'  he  said,  and  that  was  all. 

"  I  turned  back.  I  'd  been  angry  before  but  never 
as  angry  as  that.  Bodsky  was  already  getting  up  the 


94  HOME 

fly  of  a  tent.  '  I  saw  it  coming,'  he  said  with  his  quiet 
little  laugh  that  you  never  hear  when  there  's  anything 
to  laugh  at.  '  Look  here,  Bodsky,'  I  said,  '  let 's  walk 
to  the  old  crossing.'  And  he  answered,  '  My  dear  chap, 
I  'm  going  to  sit  right  here.  I  would  n't  miss  this  for 
a  shot  at  elephant.  That  man  is  Ten  Percent 
Wayne.' 

"  '  Where  'd  you  meet  him  ? '  I  asked. 

"  t  Never  met  him/  said  Bodsky,  '  but  I  Ve  heard  of 
him.'  So  had  I.  We  sat  down  together  under  the  fly 
on  a  couple  of  loads  and  propped  two  whiskies-and- 
warm-water  on  another  load  in  front  of  us  and  watched 
Wayne  while  Wayne  watched  his  men. 

"  {  Suppose  we  offer  him  a  drink,'  I  said  and  ran  the 
sweat  off  my  eyebrows  with  my  finger. 

"  Bodsky  looked  at  me  pityingly.  t  So  you  want  to 
get  burned  again.  Does  that  man  look  to  you  as  though 
he  was  thinking  about  a  drink  ?  Well,  let  me  tell  you 
he  is  n't.  Every  bit  of  him  is  thinking  about  that  bridge 
every  minute.  God !  I  have  n't  seen  men  driven  like 
that  since  I  was  a  boy.  Once  more  there  's  something 
new  in  Africa !  And  I  Ve  never  seen  a  man  drive  him- 
self like  that,  anywhere.'  All  the  Mongolian  and  Tatar 
that  is  said  to  lurk  in  every  Russian  seemed  to  be  leak- 
ing out  of  Bodsky's  narrowed  eyes. 

"We  sat  there  and  drank  and  smoked  and  sweated, 
and  I  sulked.  Every  once  in  a  while  Bodsky  would 
say  something.  First  it  was :  '  Those  boys  are  from 
the  South.  Must  have  brought  them  with  him.'  Then 
it  was :  '  He  knows  something  about  the  sun.  He  keeps 
his  head  in  the  shade-spot  from  that  lonely  palm.'  And 


HOME  95 

finally :  '  Collingef  ord,  I  never  despised  your  intellect 
before.  What  are  you  sulking  for?  Can't  you  see 
what 's  up  ?  Can't  you  understand  that  if  a  man  will 
stand  for  two  hours  shifting  an  inch  at  a  time  with 
the  shade  rather  than  disturb  half-a-dozen  niggers  at 
work  to  go  and  get  a  helmet  he  is  n't  going  to  call  those 
niggers  off  to  let  a  couple  of  loafers  like  us  crawl  across 
his  girders?  What  you  and  I  are  staring  at  is  just 
plain  common  garden  Work  with  a  capital  W,  stark 
naked  and  ugly,  but  by  God,  it 's  great.' 

"  And  right  there  I  saw  the  light.  To  us  two  the 
mystery  of  Ten  Percent  Wayne  was  revealed.  He  could 
drive  men.  He  could  make  bricks  without  straw. 
While  work  was  on,  nothing  else  mattered.  Eight  and 
wrong  were  measured  by  the  needs  of  that  bridge  and 
death  was  too  good  for  the  shirker.  And  with  the 
light  I  forgot  the  brute  in  the  man  tearing  along  the 
dizzy  height  of  the  girder  to  lash  a  loafer  and  only 
remembered  that  he  had  risked  his  life  to  avenge  just 
one  moment  stolen  from  the  day's  work." 

The  stem  of  Collingeford's  wine  glass  snapped  be- 
tween his  fingers.  "  I  'm  sorry,"  he  said,  laying  the 
pieces  aside.  He  smiled  a  little  nervously  on  the  three 
tense  faces  before  him.  "  I  don't  tell  that  story  often. 
It  goes  too  deep.  Not  everybody  understands.  Some 
people  call  Wayne  no  better  than  a  murderer ;  but  I  'm 
not  one  of  them.  And  Bodsky  says  there  have  been  a 
lot  of  murderers  he  'd  like  to  take  to  his  club." 

"  J.  Y.,  there  's  somebody  listening  at  the  door,"  said 
the  Captain.  "  Been  there  some  time." 

J.  Y.  swung  around  and  threw  open  the  door.     He 


96  HOME 

sprang  forward  and  caught  Clem  in  the  act  of  flight. 
He  brought  her  back  into  the  room  and  sat  down,  holding 
her  upright  beside  him.  J.  Y.  was  proud  and  for  a 
moment  Collingeford's  presence  galled  him.  "What 
were  you  doing,  Clem  ?  "  he  asked. 

Clematis  was  in  that  degree  of  embarrassment  and 
disarray  which  makes  lovely  youth  a  shade  more  lovely. 
Her  brown  hair  was  tumbled  about  her  face  and  down 
her  back.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  and  her  thin  white 
neck  seemed  to  tremble  above  the  deep  red  of  her  slightly 
yoked  frock.  Her  lips  were  moist  and  parted  in  excite- 
ment. She  was  sixteen  and  beautiful  beyond  the  reach 
of  hackneyed  phrases.  The  four  men  fixed  their  eyes 
upon  her,  and  she  dropped  hers.  "  I  was  eavesdrop- 
ping," she  said  in  a  voice  that  was  very  low  but  clear. 

"  Why,  Clem !  "  said  J.  Y.  gravely. 

Clem  looked  around  on  the  four  men.  She  did  not 
seem  afraid.  Unconsciously  they  waited  for  her  to  go 
on,  and  she  did.  "  Mr.  Collingeford  was  telling  about 
Alan.  I  haard  Charley  say  he  was  going  to.  I  shall 
always  eavesdrop  when  any  one  tells  about  Alan." 

For  a  second  her  auditors  were  stunned  by  the  audac- 
ity. Collingeford's  face  was  the  first  to  light  up  and 
his  hand  came  down  on  the  table  with  a  bang.  "  Bully 
for  you,  young  'un !  "  he  cried  and  his  clear  laugh  could 
be  heard  on  the  lawn.  Before  it  was  over,  the  Judge 
joined  in,  the  Captain  grunted  his  merriest  grunt  and 
J.  Y.  patted  Clem's  shoulder  and  smiled. 

Clem  was  of  the  salt  of  the  earth  among  womankind 
—  the  kind  that  waits  to  weep  till  the  battle  is  over  and 
then  becomes  a  thousand  times  more  dear  in  her  weak- 


HOME  97 

ness.  Her  big  eyes  had  been  welling  with  tears  and  now 
they  jumped  the  barrier  just  as  Nance  rushed  in  and 
cried,  "  What  are  you  all  laughing  at  ? "  Then  she 
caught  sight  of  Clem.  From  her  she  looked  around  on 
the  men.  "  You  four  big  hulking  brutes/'  she  said. 
"  Come  to  me,  Clem,  you  darling.  What  have  they  been 
doing  to  you  ?  There,  there,  don't  cry.  Men  are  silly 
things.  What  if  they  did  laugh  at  you  ?  " 

Clem  was  sobbing  on  Nance's  shoulder.  "  It  is  n't 
that,"  she  gasped.  "  I  don't  —  mind  —  that !  But 
Mr.  Collingeford  ca-called  me  a  '  young  one.' ' 

The  three  gray-heads  kept  their  faces  with  difficulty. 
Collingeford  leaped  to  his  feet.  "  My  dear  young  lady 
—  Miss  Clematis  — "  he  stammered,  "  my  word,  now ! 
I  did  n't  mean  it.  Swear  I  did  n't.  I  '11  do  anything 
if  you  '11  only  stop  crying.  Do  stop  and  listen  to  me. 
I  '11  grovel." 

It  took  him  an  hour  to  make  his  peace. 


CHAPTER  XV 

MANY  they  were  who  drank  at  the  fountain  of  hos- 
pitality in  Maple  House  and  to  all,  quiet  Mrs. 
J.  Y.  held  out  the  measured  cup  of  welcome  with  im- 
partial hand.  But  once  in  a  while  one  came  who  made 
the  rare  appeal  to  the  heart.  Such  a  one  was  Collinge- 
ford.  For  all  his  wanderings,  his  roughing,  and  his 
occasional  regression  to  city  drawing-rooms  and  ultra- 
country  houses,  Collingeford  fitted  into  the  Hill  —  he 
belonged. 

On  Sunday  night  they  were  gathered  on  the  lawn,  all 
but  Clem  who  sat  at  the  piano  beside  an  open  window 
and  poured  her  girl's  voice  out  over  the  rippling  keys. 
Her  voice  was  thin  and  clear  like  a  mountain  brook 
hurrying  oTTer  pebbles  and  like  the  brook  it  held  the 
promise  of  coming  fullness. 

Collingeford  sat  by  Mrs.  J.  Y.,  a  little  apart  from  the 
others.  They  had  not  talked.  Mrs.  J.  Y.  broke  a  long 
silence  when  she  said,  in  a  full  low  voice  that  somehow 
seemed  related  to  Clem's  thin  trill.  "  We  are  very  quiet 
here." 

Collingeford  looked  thoughtfully  at  his  glowing  cigar- 
end.  "  The  best  parts  of  life  are  quiet,"  he  answered. 

"Do  you  really  like  it?"  said  Mrs.  J.  Y.,  almost 
shyly.  "  Englishmen  of  your  class  generally  fall  to  the 

lot  of  our  landed  and  chateauxed." 

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"  My  dear  Mrs.  Wayne,"  said  Collingeford,  "  I  've 
been  sitting  here  in  a  really  troubled  silence  trying  to 
think  out  how  to  ask  you  to  make  it  a  week  for  me  in- 
stead of  a  week-end." 

Mrs.  J.  Y.'s  laugh  was  happy  but  low.  It  did  not 
disturb  the  others.  Collingeford  went  on.  "  I  know 
America  pretty  well  for  an  Englishman.  I  thought  I 
had  done  the  whole  country,  from  Albuquerque  to  New- 
port. But  you  are  right.  When  we  're  not  roughing 
it  out  West,  we  visiting  Englishmen  are  pretty  apt  to  be 
rubbing  up  against  the  gilded  high-lights  of  the  landed 
and  the  chateauxed.  This  " —  Collingeford  waved  his 
cigar  to  embrace  the  whole  of  Red  Hill  — "  is  something 
new  to  me  —  and  old.  It 's  the  sort  of  thing  English- 
men think  of  when  they  are  far  from  home.  I  have 
never  seen  it  before  in  America." 

"  And  yet,"  said  Mrs.  J.  Y.,  "  there  are  thousands 
of  quiet  homes  in  America  just  like  it  in  spirit.  In 
spite  of  all  our  divorces  —  all  our  national  linen-wash- 
ing in  public  —  our  homes  are  to-day  what  they  always 
have  been,  the  backbone  of  the  country.  The  social 
world  is  in  turmoil  everywhere  and  America  is  in  the 
throes  no  less  than  England.  Our  backbone  is  under 
a  strain  and  some  think  it  is  breaking,  but  I  don't." 
She  turned  her  soft  eyes  on  Collingeford  and  smiled. 
"  There,"  she  added,  "  I  have  been  polemic  but  one 
seldom  has  the  chance  to  spread  the  good  fame  of  one's 
country.  I  am  glad  you  can  give  us  a  week  instead  of 
a  week-end." 

Collingeford  heard  some  one  speak  of  Mrs.  Lansing 
and  he  said  to  Mrs.  J.  Y.,  "  I  know  a  Mrs.  Lansing  — 


100  HOME 

a  beautiful  and  scintillating  young  person  —  the  sort  of 
effervescence  that  flies  over  to  Europe  and  becomes  the 
dismay  of  our  smart  women  and  the  fate  of  many  men." 

Mrs.  J.  Y.  for  a  second  was  puzzled.  "  That  is  n't 
Mrs.  Lansing  —  it 's  Mrs.  Gerry  you  're  thinking  of. 
Mrs.  Lansing  is  her  mother-in-law.  They  live  next 
door." 

The  next  morning,  with  Clem  as  cicerone,  Collinge- 
ford  went  over  to  The  Firs  to  pay  his  respects  to  Alix. 
They  found  her  under  the  trees. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  Alix.  "  The  Honorable 
Percy,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  What  a  memory  you  have  for  trifles,"  said  Collinge- 
ford,  laughing.  "  May  I  sit  down  ?  " 

"  Do,"  said  Alix.  She  was  perched  in  the  middle  of 
a  garden  seat.  On  each  side  of  her  were  piled  various 
stuffs  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  sewing  circle. 
Collingeford  sat  down  before  her  and  stared.  Clem 
had  gone  off  in  search  of  game  more  to  her  taste.  Alix 
seemed  to  him  very  small.  He  felt  the  change  in  her 
before  he  could  fix  in  what  it  lay.  She  seemed  still  and 
restful  in  spite  of  her  flying  fingers.  Spiritually  still. 
Her  eyes,  glancing  at  him  between  stitches,  were  amused 
and  grave  at  the  same  time. 

"  Doll's  clothes  ? "  said  Collingeford,  waving  at  a 
beribboned  morsel. 

"  No,"  said  Alix. 

Collingeford  stared  a  little  longer  and  then  he  broke 
out  with,  "  Look  here,  what  have  you  done  with  her  ? 
Over  there,  the  young  Mrs.  Lansing  —  spice,  deviltry, 
scintillation  and  wit  —  blinding.  Over  here,  Mrs. 


HOME  101 

Gerry  —  demure  and  industrious.  Don't  tell  me  you 
have  gone  in  for  the  Quaker  pose,  but  please  tell  me 
which  is  the  poseuse;  you  now  or  the  other  one." 

Alix  laughed.  "  I  'm  just  me  now,  minus  the  devil- 
try and  all  that.  Come,  I  '11  show  you  what  I  've  done 
with  it." 

They  threaded  the  trees  and  came  upon  a  mighty 
bower,  half  sun,  half  shade,  where  in  the  midst  of  a 
nurse  and  Clem  and  many  toys  a  baby  was  enthroned 
on  a  rug.  "  There  you  are,"  said  Alix.  "  There 's 
my  spice,  deviltry,  scintillation  and  wit  all  done  into 
one  roily-poly." 

"  Well,  I  'm  blowed,"  said  Collingeford,  advancing 
cautiously  on  the  young  monarch.  "  Do  you  want  me 
to  —  to  feel  him  or  say  anything  about  his  looks  ?  I  '11 
have  to  think  a  minute  if  you  do." 

"  Booby,"  said  Alix,  "  come  away." 

But  Collingeford  seemed  fascinated.  He  squatted 
on  the  rug  and  poked  the  monarch's  ribs.  Nurse, 
mother  and  Clem  flew  to  the  rescue,  but  to  their  amaze- 
ment the  monarch  did  not  bellow.  He  appropriated 
Collingeford's  finger.  "  I  wonder  if  he  'd  mind  if  I 
called  him  a  '  young  'un/  "  soliloquized  the  attacking 
giant.  Then  he  pulled  the  baby's  leg.  "  When  he 
grows  up  tell  him  I  was  the  first  man  to  pull  his  leg. 
My  word,  he  has  n't  a  bone  in  his  body,  not  even  a 
tooth." 

"  Silly,"  said  Clem,  "  of  course  not." 

"  What  are  you  staring  at  him  that  way  for  ? "  said 
Alix.  "Can  a  baby  make  you  think ?  A  penny  for 
them." 


102  HOME 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  said  Collingeford  gravely, 
"  that  a  baby  is  positively  the  only  thing  I  've  never 
eaten." 

A  horrified  silence  greeted  this  remark.  The  nurse 
was  the  first  to  recover.  She  strode  forward,  gathered 
up  the  baby  and  marched  away.  Alix  and  Clem  fixed 
their  eyes  on  Collingeford.  He  slowly  withered  and 
drew  back. 

Then  the  Judge  and  Mrs.  Lansing  came  out  to  them. 
Collingeford  was  introduced.  Mrs.  Lansing  turned  to 
Alix.  "  Have  you  asked  Mr.  Collingeford  to  stay  to 
lulich  ?  The  Judge  has  asked  himself." 

"  No,  Mother,"  said  Alix.  "  I  'm  afraid  we  could  n't 
give  the  Hon.  Percy  anything  new  to  eat.  He  says  — " 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Lansing,"  interrupted  Collingeford, 
"  it's  all  a  mistake.  I  positively  loathe  eating  new 
things,  no  matter  how  delicious  and  rosy  and  blue-eyed 
they  look." 

"  Are  you  speaking  of  cabbages  ?' "  inquired  the  Judge. 

"  No,  babies,"  said  Clem.  "  He  wanted  to  eat  the 
baby." 

Mrs.  Lansing  laughed.  "  I  don't  blame  him,"  she 
said.  "  I  Ve  often  wanted  to  eat  him  myself." 

Collingeford  spent  a  good  deal  of  his  week  at  The 
Firs.  Clem  went  to  see  the  baby  daily  as  a  matter 
of  course  and  he  went  along,  as  he  said  himself,  as 
another  matter  of  course.  Clem  talked  to  the  baby, 
Collingeford  to  Alix.  He  said  to  her  one  day,  "  I  Ve 
read  in  books  about  babies  doing  this  sort  of  thing  to 
gad-abouts  — ' 

"  Gad-abouts,"  interrupted  Alix,  "  is  just,  but  cruel." 


HOME  103 

"Well,  butterflies,"  compromised  Collingeford. 
"  But  I  never  believed  it  really  happened." 

"  Oh,"  said  Alix,  "  it  was  n't  the  baby.  Not  alto- 
gether. You  see,  Mr.  Collingeford,  Gerry  Lansing  — 
I  'm  Mrs.  Gerry  —  disappeared  over  a  year  ago  —  be- 
fore the  baby  came.  He  thought  I  didn't  love  him. 
I  might  as  well  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  believe  in  tell- 
ing things.  Mystery  is  always  more  dangerous  than 
truth;  it  gives  such  a  lead  to  imagination." 

So  she  told  him  and  Collingeford  listened,  interested. 
At  the  end  he  said  nothing.  Alix  looked  at  his  thought- 
ful face.  "  What  do  you  think  ?  Is  n't  there  a  chance  ? 
Don't  you  think  he  's  possibly  —  probably  alive  ?  " 

The  Judge  was  not  there  to  hear  the  meek  appeal  of 
faith  for  comfort.  Collingeford  met  Alix'  eyes  frankly. 
"  If  I  were  you,"  he  said,  "  I  would  probably  believe  as 
you  do.  I  've  met  too  many  dead  men  in  Piccadilly 
looking  uncommonly  well  ever  to  say  that  a  man  is  dead 
because  he 's  disappeared.  Then  there 's  the  other  side 
of  it.  Bodsky  says  a  man  is  never  dead  while  there 's 
anybody  left  that  loves  him." 

"  The  Judge  told  me  about  Bodsky.  He  's  the  man 
that  said  there  had  been  lots  of  murderers  he  'd  like  to 
take  to  his  club.  He  must  be  worth  while.  I  'd  like 
to  talk  to  him." 

"  I  don't  suppose,"  said  Collingeford  absently,  "  that 
Bodsky  has  talked  to  a  woman  since  he  killed  his  mis- 
tress." 

Alix  started  and  looked  up  from  her  work.  "  Don't 
you  think  you  had  better  come  back  —  and  bring  the 
talk  back  with  you  ?  " 


104:  HOME 

It  was  Collingeford's  turn  to  start.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,"  he  said.  "  You  are  right,  I  was  in  another 
world.  Only  you  must  n't  get  a  wrong  impression. 
Everybody  says  it  was  an  accident  —  except  Bodsky. 
He  has  never  said  anything." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ALAN  WAYNE  had  been  away  for  a  year.  He 
had  not  returned  from  Montreal  but  had  gone  on 
from  there  to  work  in  South  America  and,  later,  to 
Africa. 

He  had  been  in  town  for  several  days  when  he  met 
the  Judge  one  afternoon  in  November  on  the  Avenue. 

"  Judge,"  he  said  without  preamble,  "  what 's  this  I 
hear  about  Gerry  disappearing." 

"  It 's  true,"  said  the  Judge  and  added  grimly, 
"  he  disappeared  the  day  you  went  to  Montreal." 

Alan  colored  and  his  face  turned  grave.  "  I  am 
sorry,"  he  said.  "  I  did  n't  know  it." 

"  Sorry  for  what  ? "  asked  the  Judge,  but  Alan  re- 
fused the  opening  and  the  Judge  hardly  regretted  it. 
They  were  not  in  tune  and  he  felt  it.  His  heart  was 
heavy  over  Alan  for  his  own  sake.  He  had  broken 
what  the  Judge  had  long  reverenced  as  a  charmed 
circle.  He  had  exiled  himself  from  that  which  should 
have  been  dearer  to  him  than  his  heart's  desire.  The 
Judge  wondered  if  he  realized  it.  "  You  're  not  going 
out  to  Eed  Hill  ?  "  he  asked,  trying  to  make  the  ques- 
tion casual. 

Alan  glanced  at  him  sharply.  What  was  the  Judge 
after  ?  "  No,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  I  shall  not  break 
the  communal  coma  of  Eed  Hill  for  some  time.  I  'm 

105 


106  HOME 

off  again.  McDale  &  McDale  have  loaned  me  to  Ellin- 
son's.  I  've  become  a  sort  of  poolibah  on  construction 
in  Africa.  They  get  a  premium  for  lending  me." 

Alan's  speech  habitually  drawled  except  for  an  oc- 
casional retort  that  came  like  the  crack  of  a  whip.  The 
Judge  looked  him  over  curiously.  Alan's  dress  was  al- 
most too  refined.  His  person  was  as  well  cared  for  as 
a  woman's.  Every  detail  about  him  was  a  studied 
negation  of  work,  utility,  service.  The  Judge  thought 
of  Collingeford's  story  and  wondered. 

They  walked  in  silence  for  some  time  and  then  Alan 
took  his  leave.  The  Judge  followed  his  erect  figure 
with  solemn  eyes.  Alan  had  deteriorated.  One  can- 
not be  the  fly  in  the  amber  of  more  than  one  woman's 
memory  without  clouding  one's  own  soul,  and  a  clouded 
soul  has  its  peculiar  circumambiency  which  the  clean 
can  feel.  The  Judge  felt  it  in  Alan  and  winced. 

If  Alan  did  not  go  to  the  Hill,  the  Hill,  in  certain 
measure,  came  to  Alan.  The  next  afternoon  found  the 
Captain  once  more  established  in  his  chair  in  a  window 
at  the  club  with  Alan  beside  him.  The  Captain  had 
not  changed.  His  hair  was  in  the  same  state  of  white 
insurgency,  his  eyes  bulged  in  the  same  old  way,  and  he 
still  puffed  when  he  talked.  His  garb  was  identical  and 
awakened  the  usual  interest  in  the  passing  gamin. 

"  You  '11  never  grow  old,  sir,"  said  Alan. 

"  Old  I  "  said  the  Captain.  "  Huh,  I  grew  old  be- 
fore you  were  born."  The  Captain  spoke  with  pride. 
He  straightened  his  bullet  head  and  poised  a  tot  of 
whisky  with  a  steady  hand.  "  What  did  I  tell  you  ? " 
he  said  into  space. 


HOME  107 

"  How  's  that,  sir  ?  " 

"  What  did  I  tell  you,"  repeated  the  Captain  swing- 
ing around  his  eyes,  "  about  women  ?  " 

Alan  flushed  angrily.  He  had  no  retort  for  the  old 
man.  He  sat  sullenly  silent. 

The  Captain  colored  too.  "  That 's  right,"  he  said 
with  a  surprising  touch  of  choler.  "  Sulk.  Every 
badly  broken  colt  sulks  at  the  grip  of  the  bit.  What 
you  need,  young  man,  is  a  touch  of  the  whip  and  you  're 
going  to  get  it." 

And  then  the  old  man  revealed  a  surprising  knowl- 
edge of  words  that  could  lash.  At  first  Alan  was  in- 
different, then  amazed,  and  finally  recognized  himself 
beaten  at  his  own  game.  He  came  out  of  that  inter- 
view thoroughly  chastened  and  with  an  altogether  new 
respect  for  the  old  Captain.  No  one  knew  better  than 
Alan  that  it  took  a  special  brand  of  courage  to  whip 
him  with  words  but  the  Captain  had  not  stopped  to 
stuff  his  own  ears  with  cotton  wool  before  engaging  the 
enemy.  He  had  risked  all  in  one  liquid,  stinging,  over- 
whelming volley  and  he  had  won. 

The  Captain's  code  was  peculiar,  to  say  the  least,  and 
held  the  passionate  pilgrim  in  ample  regard  but,  as  he 
pointed  out  to  Alan,  it  was  a  code  of  honor.  It  played 
a  game  within  rules.  He  further  remarked  that  the 
hawk  was  a  bird  of  evil  repute  but  personally  he  pre- 
ferred him  to  the  eagle  that  fouls  its  own  nest.  There 
were  other  pregnant  phrases  that  hung  in  Alan's  mind 
for  some  time  and  half  awakened  him  to  a  realization 
of  where  he  stood.  Many  a  man,  propped  up  by  the 
sustaining  atmosphere  of  a  narrow  world,  has  passed 


108  HOME 

merciless  judgment  on  such  sins  as  Alan's  —  metal,  un- 
proved, sitting  in  judgment  over  the  bar  that  twists  in 
the  flame.  But  the  Captain  was  not  one  of  the  world's 
confident  army  of  the  untested.  He  had  roamed  the 
high  seas  of  pleasure  as  well  as  the  ocean  wave.  Alan 
would  have  struck  back  at  a  saint  but  he  took  chastise- 
ment from  the  old  sinner  with  good  grace. 

Alan  left  the  Captain  and  presented  himself  at  the 
downtown  offices  of  J.  Y.  Wayne  &  Co.  They  were 
expecting  him  and  he  was  shown  in  to  his  uncle  im- 
mediately, to  the  exasperation  of  several  pompous,  wait- 
ing clients.  It  was  the  first  time  that  uncle  and  nephew 
had  been  face  to  face  since  their  memorable  interview 
at  Maple  House. 

J.  Y.  Wayne  was  aging.  He  had  lived  hard  and 
showed  it,  but  there  was  no  weakness  in  his  age  and  he 
met  Alan  without  compromise.  He  nodded  toward  a 
chair  but  did  not  offer  his  hand.  When  he  spoke  his 
voice  was  low  and  modulated  to  the  tone  of  business. 
"  I  wanted  to  see  you  to  tell  you  that  you  have  over- 
paid your  account  with  me.  The  balance  has  been  put 
to  your  credit.  You  can  see  the  cashier  about  that. 
I  want  to  tell  you,  too,  that  I  have  made  too  much 
money  myself  to  admire  a  surprising  capacity  in  that 
direction  in  any  one  else. 

"  Don't  think  that  I  don't  appreciate  the  significance 
of  your  wiping  out  a  debt  which  you  incurred  unwit- 
tingly. I  can  see  that  you  had  to  do  it  because  a  Wayne 
must  carry  his  head  high  in  his  own  eyes.  But  — "  and 
here  J.  Y.  's  eyes  left  his  nephew's  expressionless  face 
and  looked  vaguely  into  the  shadows  of  the  room.  His 


HOME  109 

voice  took  a  lower  key.  "  With  all  your  sacrifice  to 
pride  you  have  failed  in  pride.  You  have  not  been 
proud  in  the  things  that  count." 

J.  Y.  's  voice  fell  still  lower.  His  words  hung  and 
dropped  in  the  silence  of  the  room  like  the  far-away 
throb  of  a  great  bell  on  a  still  night.  "  Yesterday  Clem 
was  crying  because  you  had  not  come  to  the  house.  I 
try  to  think,  Alan,  that  it 's  because  Clem  is  there  that 
you  have  not  come.  If  I  could  think  that  — "  J.  Y.'s 
eyes  came  slowly  back  to  Alan's  face.  A  dull  red  was 
burning  there.  J.  Y.  went  on,  "  Shame  is  a  precious 
thing  to  a  man.  Different  creeds  —  different  circum- 
stances —  carry  us  to  various  lengths.  Ethics  are  elastic 
to-day  as  never  before  but,  as  long  as  shame  holds  a  bit 
of  ground  in  a  man's  battlefield,  he  can  win  back  to  any 
height." 

Eor  a  long  minute  there  was  silence,  then  on  a  com- 
mon impulse  they  both  arose.  Alan's  eyes  were  wide 
open  and  moist.  He  held  out  his  hand  and  J.  Y. 
gripped  it.  It  was  their  whole  farewell. 

Back  in  his  rooms  Alan  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Clem ; 
"  Dear  Clem :  We  are  all  two  people.  Uncle  J. 
Y.  cut  his  other  half  off  about  thirty  years  ago  and 
left  it  behind.  The  Judge  has  his  other  half  locked 
up  in  a  closet.  He  has  never  let  it  out  at  all.  And 
so  on,  with  every  one  of  us.  This  sounds  very  funny 
to  you  now  but  some  day  when  you  are  grown  up  you 
will  catch  your  other  self  looking  at  you  and  then  you 
will  understand  what  I  mean.  I  am  two  people  too. 
The  half  of  me  that  knows  you  and  loves  you  and  Red 
Hill  and  that  you  love  has  been  away  longer  than  the 


110  HOME 

rest  of  me.  He  only  got  back  twenty  minutes  ago,  and 
it  is  too  late  for  him  to  come  and  see  you  because  he 
and  the  rest  of  me  are  off  to-morrow  on  another  trip. 
But  he  wants  you  to  know  that  he  is  awfully  sorry  to 
have  missed  you.  Next  time  I  shall  bring  him  with 
me,  I  hope,  and  I  '11  send  him  to  you  the  day  we  arrive." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THERE  is  no  stronger  proof  of  man's  evolution 
than  his  adaptability, —  his  power  of  attainment 
through  the  material  at  hand,  however  elementary. 
From  the  very  beginning,  the  necessities  of  his  new 
life  called  to  Gerry's  dormant  instincts.  For  the  first 
week  he  would  not  hear.  The  past  loosens  its  tendrils 
slowly.  He  was  listless  and  loafed  restlessly  about  the 
house.  The  two  darkies  worked  for  his  well-being,  the 
two  white  women  waited  on  him  hand  and  foot.  At 
first  it  was  lulling ;  then  it  was  wearying.  He  began  to 
wander  from  the  house. 

But  the  week  had  not  been  altogether  lost.  He  had 
gathered  desultory  but  primitive  information.  Occa- 
sional reoccuring  words  began  to  be  more  than  mere 
sounds.  The  girl's  name  was  Margarita.  The 
wrinkled  little  woman  was  her  aunt,  Dona  Maria.  The 
two  darkies  were  lingering  relics  of  slave  days.  They 
had  been  born  here.  They  had  gone  with  emancipation, 
but  they  had  come  back.  The  name  of  the  plantation 
was  Fazenda  Flores.  To  them  it  was  the  world.  They 
had  wandered  out  of  it  hand  in  hand  with  liberty  but 
they  had  come  back  because  freedom  was  here.  They 
needed  some  one  to  serve.  Margarita  had  long  been 
an  orphan.  The  place  was  hers  and  had  once  been  rich. 

But  before  her  day  water  had  become  scarce.     The  place 

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112  HOME 

was  uncared  for  and  had  fallen  into  its  present  ruin. 
It  was  well,  she  said,  for  if  she  had  been  rich  suitors 
would  have  searched  her  out  long  since.  She  was 
eighteen.  She  had  been  a  woman  for  years ! 

These  things,  some  of  them  distinct,  some  only  half- 
formed  impressions,  ran  in  Gerry's  head  as  he  wandered 
over  the  fazenda.  It  had  once  been  rich,  why  was  it 
not  rich  now?  Fertility  sprang  to  his  view  on  every 
side  save  one.  This  was  the  gentle  slope  away  from  the 
river  and  behind  the  house.  Even  here  he  discovered 
hummocks  in  alignment,  vague  traces  of  the  careful 
tilling  of  another  time.  He  climbed  the  slope  till  he 
came  to  a  depression  running  parallel  to  the  river.  It 
made  a  line  and  beyond  that  line  was  desert  untamed. 
Cactus  and  thorn  dotted  its  barren  soil.  Gerry  fol- 
lowed the  depression  down  to  its  end,  then  turned  back 
and  followed  it  up.  It  wandered  among  rocks  and 
hillocks  to  a  natural  cleft  in  the  banks  of  the  great 
river. 

The  cleft  was  long  and  straight  and  at  its  end  he 
saw  the  turmoil  of  the  rushing  current.  The  water 
surged  up  the  cleft  to  the  gentle  slope  of  sand  at  his 
feet  in  an  eternal  come  and  go.  What  a  place  for  a 
bath,  he  thought,  and  then  found  Margarita  panting 
beside  him.  She  had  followed  him.  She  had  been 
running.  She  held  one  hand  to  her  heart  and  with  the 
other  clutched  his  arm.  When  she  had  got  her  breath 
she  motioned  him  to  stand  still.  Then  she  picked  up  a 
large  stone  and,  running  down  the  hard  sand  bank  be- 
hind a  receding  wave,  dropped  it  and  ran  back.  The 
water  rushed  after  her,  picked  up  the  stone,  played  with 


HOME  113 

it,  and  then  the  terrific  undertow  carried  it  whirling 
down  the  cleft  and  away.  Gerry  smiled  and  nodded 
his  thanks  and  comprehension. 

He  climbed  a  point  of  rock  and  gazed  around  him. 
Far  down  to  the  left  gleamed  the  old  plantation  house 
in  the  midst  of  its  waste  lands.  His  eye  followed  the 
long  depression  and  he  began  to  understand  many 
things.  The  ruin  was  a  young  ruin  like  himself.  In 
itself  it  contained  the  seeds  of  rejuvenescence.  It  had 
been  robbed  of  its  talisman  and  its  talisman  was  water. 
Tons  of  water  flowed  past  it  and  left  it  thirsting  for 
drops.  Irrigation  is  coeval  with  the  birth  of  civiliza- 
tion. It  had  been  here  in  this  depression,  lived,  and 
passed  away  before  he  and  the  girl  were  born.  He 
tried  to  explain  to  her  what  once  had  been,  but  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  was  not  interested;  she 
did  not  understand.  Together  they  walked  back  to  the 
house.  Gerry  was  silent  and  thoughtful.  He  saw  a 
vision  of  what  Fazenda  Flores  had  once  been,  what 
work  could  make  it  again. 

The  following  day  he  rooted  out  two  rusty  spades 
from  the  debris  in  the  old  mill,  fitted  new  handles  to 
them  and  took  the  old  darky,  Bonifacio  by  name,  off 
with  him  to  the  depression.  They  began  the  long  task 
of  digging  out  the  silt  of  years.  Day  after  day,  week 
after  week,  they  clung  to  the  monotonous  work.  The 
darky  worked  like  an  automaton.  Work  in  itself  to 
him  was  nothing  beyond  the  path  to  food  and  rest  at 
night.  Labor  made  no  demands  on  courage  —  it  had 
no  end,  no  goal.  But  Gerry's  labor  was  dignified  by 
conscious  effort.  His  eyes  were  not  in  the  ditch  but 


114  HOME 

on  the  vision  he  had  seen  of  what  Fazenda  Flores  might 
be.  He  had  fixed  his  errant  soul  on  a  goal.  The  es- 
sence of  slavery  is  older  than  any  bonds  wrought  by  man. 
The  white  man  and  the  black  in  the  ditch  were  its 
parable.  The  dignity  and  the  shame  of  labor  were 
side  by  side,  paradoxically  yoked  to  the  same  task. 

Margarita  and  her  aunt  looked  on  and  smiled  and 
joy  began  to  settle  on  the  girl.  During  Gerry's  first 
restless  week  she  had  steeled  herself  each  night  to  the 
thought  that  she  would  wake  to  find  him  gone.  But 
now  he  was  taking  root.  It  amused  him  to  dig.  Well, 
let  him  dig.  There  was  no  end  to  digging. 

Gerry  occasionally  varied  the  work  of  digging  with 
making  some  knick-knack  for  the  house.  The  twisted 
limbs  of  trees  became  benches  to  supplant  the  rickety 
chairs,  clumsily  patched  and  totally  inadequate  to  his 
weight.  In  the  same  way  he  made  the  massive  frame 
of  a  bed  and  Bonifacio  remembered  an  art  and  filled 
in  the  frame  with  plaited  thongs.  Work  inspires  emu- 
lation. The  women  got  out  their  store  of  cloth.  They 
made  clothes  for  Gerry  and  'fitted  out  the  new  bed. 
Pillows  and  mattress  were  stuffed  with  dry  bur-mari- 
golds that  faintly  scented  the  whole  room.  With  each 
achievement  the  somber  house  seemed  to  take  a  step 
toward  gaiety.  Ruin  and  dilapidation  put  forth  green 
shoots.  The  gaiety  was  reflected  in  the  household. 
They  were  united  in  achievement.  Quiet  smiles  were 
their  reward  to  each  other  and  sometimes  a  burst  of 
wonder  as  when  Gerry  found  some  old  bottles  and  with 
the  aid  of  a  bit  of  string  cut  them  into  serviceable  mugs. 

Margarita  was  happy.     Her  cup  was  full.     All  the 


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dreams  of  her  girlhood  were  fulfilled  in  Gerry.  A 
silent  and  strange  lover,  but  a  man  —  such  a  man  as 
she  had  dreamed  of  but  never  seen.  To  herself  she 
sang  the  old  songs  he  should  have  sung  to  her  and  then 
laughed  as  he  nodded  mild  approval. 

One  evening  he  sat  on  a  bench  on  the  veranda,  fitting 
a  handle  into  a  dipper  made  of  a  cocoanut-shell.  Mar- 
garita sat  on  the  steps  at  his  feet.  She  stayed  herself 
on  her  hands  and  leaning  back  gazed  on  the  starry  sky 
and  sang: 

Brunette,  Brunette, 
Thy  sparkling  eyes, 
To   grace   a   world, 
Have  robbed  the  skies. 
They  are  two  stars, 
That  shine  and  see. 
Brunette,   Brunette, 
Have  pity  on  me! 

Her  young  voice  bubbled  up  from  a  full  heart.  It 
was  joy  bubbling  from  a  well  of  happiness. 

Brunette,  Brunette, 
Those   dreaming  eyes, 
Your  eyes,  Brunette, 
They  are  my  skies. 
They  are  my  sins, 
Such  eyes  as  they, 
I  look  and  sin, 
And  then  I  pray! 

She  leaned  back  further  and  further  until  she  sank 
against  his  knees.  He  stooped  over  her.  She  threw  up 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  locked  her  hands  and  drew 
him  down.  He  kissed  her  lips  and  sighed. 

"  Ah,  do  not  sigh,"  she  wailed.  "  Laugh !  Laugh 
but  once !  " 


CHAPTEE  XVIII 

GEEEY  did  not  grudge  the  months  of  toil  in  the 
ditch.  As  he  worked  he  thought  and  planned. 
This  ditch  was  the  very  real  foundation  for  the  attain- 
ment of  his  vision.  Deep  and  strong  and  carefully 
graded  it  must  be  before  he  cleared  the  sand  barrier 
to  the  river's  surge.  The  ditch  was  slow  of  growth 
but  there  was  something  about  it  which  held  his  faith. 
It  was  rugged  and  elemental.  It  was  the  ugly  source 
of  a  coming  resurrection. 

When  it  was  all  but  done  he  took  Margarita  and 
showed  her  his  handiwork.  He  pointed  out  the  little 
sluiceways,  each  with  its  primitive  gate,  a  heavy  log 
hinged  on  a  thole-pin  with  a  prop  to  hold  it  up  and  a 
stone  to  weight  it  when  down.  On  the  Fazenda  side 
were  innumerable  little  trenches  that  stretched  down 
into  the  valley. 

But  not  until  he  led  her  to  the  cleft  in  the  river 
gorge  and  showed  her  that  half  an  hour's  work  on  the 
sand  barrier  would  let  the  river  into  the  great  ditch 
did  she  understand.  And  then  she  caught  his  arm  and 
burst  into  violent  protest  and  pleading.  "  IsTo,  no," 
she  cried,  "  you  shall  not  do  it.  You  shall  not  let  in 
the  river.  The  river  is  terrible.  You  must  not  play 
with  it.  It  does  not  understand.  You  think  it  will 
do  as  you  wish  but  it  will  not.  Oh,  if  vou  must,  please, 

116 


HOME  117 

please  play  with  it  below  the  rapids.  There  it  is  kinder. 
It  lets  one  bathe.  It  lets  one  wash  clothes." 

Gerry  got  over  his  astonishment  and  laughed.  Then 
he  soothed  her.  Already  the  simpler  phrases  of  her 
tongue  came  easily  from  his  lips.  He  told  her  that  she 
was  foolish  and  a  little  coward.  She  must  watch  and 
see  how  tame  the  river  would  be.  As  he  talked  a 
strange  figure  approached  on  the  other  side  of  the 
ditch. 

"  Father  Mathias,"  said  Margarita,  "  it  is  Father 
Mathias.  He  will  help  me  dissuade  you." 

Gerry  looked  with  awe  on  the  spectacle  presented  by 
the  newcomer.  An  old  man,  rubicund  of  face,  his  flat, 
wide-brimmed  hat  pushed  well  back  on  his  gray  head, 
was  ambling  towards  them  on  a  mule.  A  long  cassock, 
half  unbuttoned  and  looped  about  his  waist,  was  sup- 
plemented by  black  trousers  and  flaring  riding  boots. 
Over  his  head  for  protection  against  the  sun  he  held 
an  enormous  white  cotton  umbrella  lined  with  green. 
The  mule  stopped  abruptly  on  the  very  brink  of  the 
ditch.  The  old  priest  shot  off  and  rolled  down  the  bank 
to  the  bottom.  The  mule  stood  still,  his  fore  legs 
slightly  straddled;  his  pose  was  one  of  mild  surprise. 

Before  Gerry  could  jump  into  the  ditch  the  priest 
had  scrambled  to  his  feet. 

"  Blessing,  Father,"  said  Margarita,  gravely. 

"  God  bless  thee,  daughter,"  replied  the  priest  calmly, 
"  but  not  this  accursed  ditch.  My  hands  are  soiled, 
nay,  worse,  scratched !  "  With  the  help  of  Gerry's 
strong  grip  he  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  bank  on  which 
they  stood.  He  smiled  on  them  benignantly.  "  A 


118  HOME 

strange  welcome  to  the  old  Father,  children.  What 
devil  dug  this  pit  for  rectitude  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Father,"  cried  Margarita,  "  curse  the  ditch  if 
you  will,  but  do  not  call  my  man  a  devil.  Look  at 
him.  Is  he  not  good  to  see  ?  I  found  him  at  the  river. 
He  is  mine." 

Gerry  smiled  at  the  girl  then  at  the  priest.  The 
priest  smiled  back.  "  Thou  didst  find  him  at  the  river, 
thou  daughter  of  Pharaoh !  "  cried  the  priest,  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye.  "  A  fine  babe.  May  he  grow  to  be  a  leader 
of  his  people." 

Together  they  walked  down  to  the  house.  Bonifacio 
was  despatched  to  fetch  the  mule  and  then  Margarita 
drew  the  old  priest  into  a  vacant  room.  Over  her 
shoulder  she  said  to  Gerry,  "  I  am  going  to  confess." 

Gerry  flushed  and  nodded.  He  wished  that  he  could 
subject  his  own  conscience  to  so  simple  a  rite.  He 
walked  about  nervously,  wondering  what  the  priest 
would  have  to  say  to  him  when  he  came  out.  But  when 
Margarita  and  Father  Mathias  finally  emerged  they 
were  already  talking  of  other  things.  The  household 
gathered  in  the  kitchen  and  there  the  old  Father  retailed 
the  gossip  of  a  vast  country-side. 

It  was  almost  a  year  since  he  had  visited  this  off- 
shoot of  his  parish  and  he  had  much  to  tell.  The 
Father  was  a  connoisseur  in  gossip  for  women.  He 
touched  lightly  on  tragedies  and  moral  slips  in  his  com- 
munity but  dwelt  at  length  on  funerals,  births,  mar- 
riages, where  rain  had  fallen  and  where  it  had  not, 
the  success  or  failure  of  each  of  the  great  church  fetes 
and  all  kindred  subjects.  This  was  the  link,  mused 


HOME  119 

Gerry,  that  joined  Fazenda  Elores  to  the  world  and  the 
world  to  Fazenda  Flores. 

The  next  morning  Gerry  was  up  early.  He  was  ex- 
cited. From  this  day  the  ditch,  the  parched  slope,  the 
valley  would  know  thirst  no  more.  With  the  long  dry 
season  even  the  green  bottoms  had  begun  to  wilt.  He 
called  Bonifacio  and  as  they  started  off  Father  Mathias 
and  Margarita  joined  them. 

"  You  will  not  let  him  do  it,  Father  ?  "  the  girl  was 
saying.  "  The  ditch  is  accursed.  You  yourself  have 
cursed  it." 

"  That  was  but  a  playful  anathema,"  said  the  priest, 
smiling  at  the  recollection  of  his  introduction  to  the 
ditch.  "  Stay  thou  here,  child.  Perhaps  I  shall  find 
that  to  solemnly  bless  in  your  man's  ditch." 

The  girl  went  slowly  back  to  the  house  and  the  priest 
walked  on  with  Gerry.  "  Irrigation,"  he  began,  "  is  des- 
tined to  be  the  salvation  of  all  this  country.  Water, 
we  have  in  plenty ;  but  it  rushes  by  in  great  rivers  leav- 
ing the  overhanging  land  thirsty.  I  picture  all  these 
barren  cliffs  leaning  over,  longing  for  a  drink.  Where 
else  can  you  see  cactus  overhanging  torrents  and  cattle 
starving  to  death  on  a  river  bank  ? " 

Gerry  was  surprised.  "  So  you  bless  my  ditch  ?  "  he 
asked  with  a  smile. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  priest.  He  had  dropped  the 
"  thou  "  that  the  church  accords  her  children  only.  He 
talked  like  one  man  of  the  world  to  another.  "  Your 
ditch,  I  can  bless."  Gerry  had  led  him  to  the  point 
of  rock  from  which  he  had  first  conceived  his  vision. 
"  You  have  not  been  a  slave  to  haste,"  continued  the 


120  HOME 

priest.  "  The  curse  of  my  people  is  that  they  toil  to 
avoid  work  but  you  have  worked  to  avoid  toil." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Gerry,  "  though  I  had  never 
thought  it  out.  I  am  striving  to  make  nature  do  the 
toiling.  Man,  toiling  alone,  has  always  been  a  pigmy." 

Under  his  direction  Bonifacio  was  digging  a  great 
hole  just  at  the  back  of  the  sand-bank.  Gerry  meas- 
ured its  capacity  and  finally  called  the  old  darky  out. 
He  jumped  down  on  to  the  sand-bank  himself  and  dug 
a  small  trench  to  the  water.  The  river  surged  through 
it  gently.  Gerry  climbed  out.  With  each  pulse  of  the 
come-and-go  a  wave  rushed  through  the  little  trench, 
widening  it  and  occasionally  carrying  away  a  block  of 
the  sand-bank  into  the  hole.  Gradually,  then  in  rapid 
progression,  the  barrier  was  leveled.  The  hole  filled 
with  water  that  rose  till  it  began  to  trickle  down  the 
long  length  of  the  ditch.  They  followed  the  tiny 
stream.  Soon  it  came  in  rushing  surges.  Hours 
passed.  Bonifacio  slept,  but  Gerry  and  the  priest  had 
forgotten  time.  The  ditch  filled.  The  water  started 
to  flow  back  into  the  river.  Along  all  its  length  the 
ditch  held.  Gerry  heaved  a  great  sigh.  The  priest 
gave  him  his  hand. 

"  Wonderfully  graded,"  he  said.  "  You  are  a  born 
engineer." 

Gerry  started  opening  the  sluice  gates,  the  lowest 
first.  The  water  gurgled  out  into  the  main  trench  and 
from  there  was  distributed.  At  first  the  thirsty  soil  swal- 
lowed it  greedily  but  gradually  the  rills  stretched  further 
and  further  down  into  the  valley.  Under  the  blazing 
sun  they  looked  like  streams  of  molten  silver  and  gold. 


HOME  121 

Margarita  came  running  up  to  them  from  the  house. 
She  looked  reproachfully  at  Father  Mathias.  Gerry 
put  his  arm  around  her  and  made  her  face  the  valley. 
The  priest  stretched  out  his  arms  and  blessed  the  water. 
Then  he  looked  at  the  girl  and  smiled.  She  smiled 
back  at  him  but  trouble  was  still  in  her  eyes. 

Gerry  left  them  to  start  on  the  work  of  fitting  the 
ponderous  sluice-gate  of  hewn  logs  that  he  had  pre- 
pared for  the  mouth  of  the  great  ditch.  It  was  a 
triumph  of  ingenuity.  He  never  could  have  evolved 
it  without  the  aid  of  a  giant  ironwood  wormscrew  taken 
from  the  wreck  of  a  cotton  press.  The  screw  was  so 
heavy  that  he  and  Bonifacio  could  hardly  carry  it. 

At  the  end  of  three  days  the  great  gate  was  installed. 
He  and  Bonifacio  toiled  like  sailors  at  a  capstan. 
They  drove  the  heavy  barrier  down  into  the  sand  with 
a  last  turn  of  the  screw  and  shut  out  the  river.  Mar- 
garita came  and  saw  and  was  pleased. 


CHAPTEE  XIX 

UNDER  the  broad  dome  of  a  mango  tree  on  the 
banks  of  an  unnamed  African  river  Alan 
Wayne  had  pitched  his  camp.  The  Selwyn  tent  and 
the  projecting  veranda  fly  were  faded  and  stained. 
The  bobbinet  mosquito  curtains  were  creamed  with  age 
and  service.  Two  camp  chairs  and  a  collapsible  table, 
battered  but  strong,  were  placed  before  the  tent.  Over 
one  of  the  chairs  hung  a  towel.  On  the  ground  squatted 
a  take-down  bath  tub,  half  filled  with  water.  In  the 
deep  shadow  of  the  tree  the  pale  green  rot-proof  can- 
vas of  the  tent,  the  fly,  the  chairs  and  bath  tub,  gleamed 
almost  white. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  great  trunk  of  the  tree 
was  the  master's  kitchen,  three  stones  and  a  half-circle 
of  forked  sticks  driven  into  the  ground.  On  the  sticks 
hung  a  few  pots  and  pans,  a  saddle  of  buck,  bits  of  fat 
and  a  disreputable  looking  coffee-bag.  Between  the 
stones  was  a  bed  of  coals.  Before  them  crouched  a  red- 
fezzed  Zanzibar!. 

From  under  a  second  tree,  fifty  yards  away,  came 
the  dull,  rhythmic  pounding  of  wooden  pestles  in 
wooden  mortars.  The  eye  could  just  distinguish  the 
glistening  naked  torsos  of  three  blacks  in  motion. 
They  were  singing  a  barbarous  chantey.  At  the  pauses 
their  arms  went  up  and  the  pestles  came  down  together 

122 


HOME  123 

with  a  thud.  The  blacks  were  pounding  the  kaffir  corn 
for  the  men's  evening  meal. 

Down  the  river  and  almost  out  of  sight  a  black, 
spidery  construction  reached  out  over  the  water  — 
Alan's  latest  bridge.  Men  swarmed  on  it. 

Six  o'clock  and  there  came  the  trill  of  a  whistle. 
Suddenly  the  bridge  was  cleared.  A  babble  of  voices 
arose.  There  was  a  crackling  of  twigs,  a  shuffling  of 
feet,  here  and  there  a  high,  excited  cry,  and  then  the 
men  poured  into  camp.  A  din  of  talk,  held  in  check 
for  hours,  arose.  Glistening  black  bodies  danced  to 
jerky,  fantastic  steps.  Songs,  shouts  and  impatient 
cries  to  the  cooks  swelled  the  medley  of  sound. 
Through  the  camp  stole  the  acrid  odor  of  toiling  Africa. 

Behind  the  men  marched  the  foreman,  McDougal; 
behind  him  came  Alan.  At  sight  of  him  the  Zanzibar! 
sprang  into  action.  He  poured  a  tin  of  hot  water  into 
the  bath  tub  and  laid  out  an  old  flannel  suit.  Beside 
the  suit  he  placed  clean  underwear,  fresh  socks  and, 
on  the  ground,  a  pair  of  slippers. 

Alan  stripped,  bathed  and  dressed.  The  Zanzibar! 
handed  him  a  cup  of  hot  tea.  By  the  time  the  tea  was 
drunk  the  table  was  freshly  laid  and  Alan  sat  down 
to  a  steaming  bowl  of  broth,  and  dinner. 

After  dinner  McDougal  joined  him  for  a  smoke.  For 
a  full  half  hour  they  sat  wordless.  Darkness  fell  and 
brought  out  the  lights  of  their  fitfully  glowing  pipes. 
From  the  men's  camp  came  a  subdued  chatter.  The 
men  were  feeding.  As  they  finished  they  lit  fires  —  a 
fire  for  every  little  group.  The  smell  of  the  wood  fires 
triumphed  over  every  other  odor. 


124  HOME 

McDougal  had  met  Alan  first  in  a  bare  room  at  an 
African  seaport.  The  room  was  furnished  with  a  chair 
and  a  table.  At  the  table  sat  Alan,  busy  with  final 
estimates  and  plans  for  supplies  for  his  little  army. 
The  interview  was  short.  McDougal  had  asked  for  a 
job  and  Alan  had  answered,  "  Get  out."  McDougal 
had  repeated  his  request  and  the  rest  of  the  story  he 
told  the  next  morning  before  the  Resident  Magistrate 
in  the  chair  and  Alan  in  the  dock. 

"  Aweel,  your  honor,  it  was  this  way :  I  went  into 
Mr.  Wayne's  office  and  asked  him  for  worruk  and  he 
said,  '  Get  out.'  I  asked  him  again  and  he  said,  '  I  '11 
give  you  two  to  get  out  —  One  —  Two,'  and  with  that 
he  cooms  on  to  the  table  and  flying  through  the  air.  I 
had  joost  considered  that  it  was  best  I  should  let  him 
hit  me  first  aince  that  I  might  break  him  with  justice 
when  he  struck  me  face  with  both  fists,  and  his  knee  in 
the  pit  of  me  stummick.  And  that 's  all,  your  honor, 
savin'  the  Kaffir  that  I  woke  up  to  find  watering  me 
and  a  rose  bush,  turrn  by  turrn  aboot." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  Magistrate,  covering  his  twitch- 
ing mouth  with  his  hand,  "  that  was  the  Kaffir  I  signed 
a  hospital  pass  for  last  night." 

"  It  may  weel  be,"  replied  McDougal  dreamily,  "  It 
may  weel  be." 

"  Well,  McDougal,  I  think  this  is  a  matter  that  can 
be  settled  out  of  court  — " 

McDougal  held  up  a  vast  hand  in  interruption. 
"  Begging  your  pardon,  your  honor,  there  '11  be  nae 
settling  of  this  matter  out  of  coort  between  Mr.  Wayne 
and  mysel'.  Aince  is  enough." 


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Justice  and  the  prisoner  in  the  dock  surrendered  to 
laughter.  McDougal  stood  grave  and  unperturbed. 

"What  I  meant,"  said  the  Magistrate  when  he  re- 
covered, "  is  that  Mr.  Wayne  will  probably  give  you  a 
job  and  call  it  all  square." 

"  That 's  it,"  said  Alan. 

"  I  asked  Mr.  Wayne  for  worruk  and  if  it 's  worruk 
he  is  giving  me  I  '11  nae  be  denying  it  is  a  fair  answer," 
replied  McDougal,  and  forthwith  became  Ten  Percent 
Wayne's  gang-boss  and  understudy  in  the  art  of  driving 
men  with  both  fists  and  a  knee. 

McDougal  knocked  out  his  third  pipe.  "  The  Deil 
of  a  country  is  this,"  he  said ;  "  in  the  seas  of  it  a  life- 
preserver  holds  you  up  handy  for  sharks  and  in  the 
rivers  does  swimming  save  your  life  ?  Nae.  It  gives 
you  a  meal  to  the  crocs." 

They  had  lost  a  black  that  day.  He  had  slipped 
from  the  bridge  into  the  water.  He  had  started  to  swim 
to  shore  and  then  suddenly  disappeared  in  a  swirl. 

Conversationally,  McDougal  limited  himself  to  a  sen- 
tence a  day  in  which  he  summed  up  the  one  event  that 
had  struck  him  as  worthy  of  notice.  Having  delivered 
himself  of  his  observation  for  the  night  he  lit  his  pipe 
once  more  and  relapsed  into  silence. 

McDougal's  was  a  companionable  silence.  Alan 
could  feel  him  sitting  there  in  the  dark,  raw-boned  and 
dour  but  ready  at  the  word  of  command. 

It  was  after  eight  when  Alan  called  for  a  light  and 
drew  from  a  worn  letter  case  the  correspondence  that  a 
runner  from  the  coast  had  brought  in  that  day.  He 
glanced  over  official  communications,  blue  prints  and 


126  HOME 

business  letters  and  stuffed  them  back  into  the  leather 
case.  One  fat  letter,  note-paper  size,  remained. 

"  McDougal,"  said  Alan,  "  hush  up  the  camp  —  tell 
'em  it 's  nine  o'clock." 

McDougal  arose  and  picking  up  a  big  stick  strode 
over  towards  the  men.  The  stick  was  so  big  that  he 
had  never  had  to  use  it.  At  the  mere  sight  of  it  the 
men  desisted  from  clamor,  dance  and  horse-play. 

Alan  drew  the  fat  letter  from  its  envelope  and  for 
the  second  time  read,  "  Dear  Alan :  As  you  see,  this 
is  from  New  York.  We  came  down  yesterday.  All 
summer  I  have  been  watching  for  my  second  self  because 
I  'm  just  about  grown  up  now  —  outside,  I  mean, — 
inside  is  different  somehow  —  and  three  days  before  we 
left  I  really  caught  her  looking  at  me  while  I  was  sit- 
ting on  the  old  stone  bench  down  by  the  pond. 

"  I  jumped  up  and  ran  after  her  all  the  way  down 
Long  Lane  and  up  the  Low  Road  to  where  the  red 
cow  broke  her  leg  that  time  and  there  I  lost  her.  I 
did  n't  find  her  again  and  had  to  come  away  without 
her  and  now  I  feel  so  queer  —  sort  of  half-y,  just  like 
you. 

"  Somehow  I  can't  blame  her.  She  did  n't  want  to 
leave  the  Hill  in  the  Gorgeous  Month  so  she  just  stayed 
behind.  Do  you  remember  — 

This  is  the  gorgeous  month  when  leafy  fires 
Mount  to  the  gods  in  myriad  summer  pyres  .  .  .   ? 

"  A  few  hours  ago  when  I  was  doing  my  mile  on  the 
Avenue  I  almost  got  run  down  and  Mam'selle  gave  me 
an  awful  scolding  for  being  so  absent-minded.  It  was 


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a  true  word.  I  was  just  that  —  absent-minded  —  be- 
cause my  mind  was  off  chasing  that  other  half.  I 
could  see  her  so  plainly!  She  had  on  the  cinnamon 
linen  with  the  white  collar  and  tabs  —  but  I  forget  — 
you  don't  know  it.  She  was  bare-headed  and  her  feet 
and  skirt  were  wet  because  it  had  been  drizzling  before 
the  sun  came  out  in  an  evening  salute  to  the  flaming 
trees.  I  saw  her  tumble  down  jumping  the  stone  wall 
in  the  bushes  at  the  foot  of  old  Bald  Head  and  then 
some  one  picked  her  up,  helped  her  over  and  together 
they  climbed  to  the  top.  It  was  your  other  half.  Have 
you  missed  him?  I  liked  the  way  he  treated  mine. 
Just  like  a  boy.  Somehow  he  's  younger  than  you  and 
sometimes  he  laughs  right  out. 

"  Then  I  saw  her  get  home,  change  her  things  and 

—  shall    I    tell    you  ? —  fish    out    the    old    doll  —  yes 

—  Bessy.     I  left  her  telling  Bessy  one  of  those  stories 
you  used  to  call  Tales  of  the  Very  Real  Things  That 
Are  Not.     Remember?     And  then  I  came  back  and 
there  I  was  on  the  Avenue  with  people  staring  at  me 
more  than  they  ever  have  before.     I  suppose  it  was 
because  I  was  out  of  breath  with  chasing  in  my  mind. 
Good-by,  Alan.     Clem." 

Alan  sat  in  the  circle  of  light  from  the  hanging  lamp 
and  stared  into  the  darkness.  From  the  river  came 
the  sound  of  sucking  mud,  then  a  heavy  tread.  A 
monster  hippo  blundered  through  the  bushes  in  search 
of  food.  On  the  other  side  of  the  tree  trunk  the  Zan- 
zibari  was  snoring.  The  fires  were  burning  out  at  the 
men's  camp.  Once  more  the  odor  of  their  bodies  hung 
in  the  air. 


128  HOME 

Alan  arose  and  dragged  his  chair  to  the  outer  edge  of 
the  mango  tree.  He  sat  down  and  with  hands  locked 
and  elbows  on  knees  gave  himself  up  to  memory.  He 
forgot  the  sounds  and  smells  of  Africa,  the  black-green 
of  over-hanging  leaves,  the  black  shadows  of  the  swirl- 
ing river,  the  black-bronze  of  the  men  about  him.  For 
an  hour  he  tore  himself  away  from  the  black  world  to 
wander  over  the  beloved  hills  in  New  England  where 
summer  dies  in  a  burst  of  light. 

Red  Hill,  crowned  with  mountain-ash,  called  to  his 
spirit  as  a  torch  in  the  night  to  a  lost  wanderer.  The 
thirty  months  that  had  passed  since  last  he  saw  its 
budding  promise  were  swept  away.  He  imagined  those 
very  budding  leaves  at  the  end  of  their  course,  the  pale 
amber  of  the  elms,  the  deep  note  of  the  steadfast  firs, 
the  flaunting  fire  of  the  brave  maples. 

Maple  House  arose  before  him,  its  lawn  carpeted  with 
dry  leaves.  From  the  leaves  floated  an  incense,  dusty, 
pungent.  The  cool  shadows  of  the  great,  rambling 
house  beckoned  to  him.  Here  is  peace,  here  is  rest, 
they  seemed  to  cry.  The  memory  of  home  gripped  him, 
held  him  and  soothed  him.  His  head  nodded  and  he 
slept  only  to  awake  with  a  start,  for  he  had  dreamed 
that  he  had  lost  the  way  back  forever. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ONE  day  as  Gerry  was  pottering  about  a  log  bridge 
he  had  thrown  over  his  ditch,  a  shadow  fell  across 
his  path  and  he  looked  up  to  find  Father  Mathias,  mule, 
umbrella  and  all,  looming  over  him. 

"  I  am  on  the  way  back,"  said  the  priest,  "  and  I 
have  stopped  to  have  a  chat  with  you." 

"  Won't  you  come  down  to  the  house  ? "  said  Gerry. 
"  Margarita  will  give  you  a  warm  welcome." 

"  And  you  ?  "  said  the  priest,  smiling. 

"  I  ? "  said  Gerry.  "  I  am  but  a  wayfarer.  I  can 
only  welcome  you  to  my  ditch." 

"  What,  again  ? "  said  the  priest  as  he  slid  cum- 
brously  off  his  passive  mule.  With  cassock  still  looped 
up  about  his  waist  he  came  to  meet  Gerry.  "  Let  us 
sit  down  on  this  log,"  said  the  priest,  "  and  you  can 
listen  to  the  water  while  I  listen  to  you." 

They  made  a  strange  picture  sitting  side  by  side  on 
the  twisted  log.  Gerry  was  looking  more  and  more  like 
a  Greek  god.  His  hair,  close  cropped  by  Margarita, 
seemed  to  have  bronzed  with  his  skin.  The  cotton 
jumper  and  trousers  had  molded  themselves  to  his  limbs. 
His  body  was  trimmed  down  to  perfect  lines. 
When  he  moved  one  could  see  muscles  rippling  as  though 
work  were  play.  His  eyes  were  deep  and  clear.  They 

had  forgotten  the  look  of  whisky.     On  his  feet  were 

129 


130  HOME 

rawhide  sandals.  Like  a  native  he  had  learned  to  keep 
them  on  with  the  aid  of  a  leather  button  held  between 
his  toes.  His  feet  were  white.  His  face  like  his  body 
was  alive.  He  held  his  big  palm-leaf  hat  in  his  hands, 
for  he  was  under  the  shade  of  the  priest's  great  cotton 
umbrella. 

Father  Mathias,  too,  had  taken  off  his  hat  and  laid  it 
carefully  on  his  pudgy  knees.  With  a  vast  red  bandana 
handkerchief  he  mopped  his  gray  head,  his  glistening 
tonsure  and  his  fat  jowls.  About  him  there  was  noth- 
ing in  training  except  his  eyes.  They  gleamed  and 
flashed  from  a  passive  mask;  they  swept  Gerry  from 
head  to  toe.  "  Flesh  is  not  thy  burden,  my  son." 

Gerry  knew  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  father  con- 
fessor. He  began  to  tell  his  story  dreamily.  In  that 
blaze  of  tropical  light,  perched  beside  his  own  handi- 
work; a  f rocked  priest  at  his  side;  a  mule,  with  head 
and  ears  pendent,  before  him ;  and  down  in  the  valley, 
the  plantation  house,  Margarita,  the  river, —  it  was  hard 
to  picture  Alix.  He  seemed  to  be  in  the  free  swing- 
ing orbit  of  another  sphere.  He  told  a  lucid  story  but 
as  he  spoke  he  seemed  to  see  himself  and  Alix  dimin- 
ished by  a  greater  perspective  than  mere  time  —  flies 
buzzing  under  glass.  Vaguely  he  felt  that  he  must  still 
love  Alix  were  Alix  of  his  life.  But  she  was  not.  She 
belonged  to  a  mechanism  of  life  the  whirring  of  whose 
tiny  wheels  drowned  out  the  low  tones  of  elemental 
things  which,  once  heard,  left  no  place  in  a  man's  heart 
for  lesser  sounds.  Gerry  did  not  picture  himself  as 
entranced  by  the  simple  life,  but  he  felt  subconsciously 
that  while  once  Nature's  music  had  seemed  but  the  shrill- 


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ing  of  cicada?,  matching  the  acute  note  of  an  artificial 
whirl,  now  it  sang  to  him  in  the  deep  tones  of  a  resonant 
organ  —  sang  with  him  —  for  he  felt  that  he  was  of 
the  music,  that  his  body  was  a  vibrating,  naked  cord  in 
a  monster  harp. 

The  priest  did  not  watch  him  as  he  talked,  but,  when 
he  had  finished,  turned  and  seemed  to  drill  him  with" 
his  piercing  eyes.  "  It  is  well,"  he  said.  "  Life  has 
buffeted  you  that  later  you  may  buffet  Life.  But  it  is 
not  with  that  distant  future  that  I  would  meddle.  To 
me  you  are  only  a  sudden  factor  in  the  life  of  one 
of  the  most  innocent  of  my  flock.  Some  people  have 
an  exaggerated  idea  of  innocence.  Not  I.  Margarita 
is  innocent  to  me.  She  has  married  you  in  her  heart. 
Some  day  you  will  go  away  —  Gerry  shook  his  head 
in  denial  but  the  priest  resumed,  "  some  day  you  will  go 
away  and  it  will  kill  her.  But  in  the  meantime  you 
make  her  live  a  life  of  sin.  Why  do  you  ?  Why  not 
marry  her  ?  " 

Gerry  looked  around  in  surprise.  "  Marry  her ! 
Have  n't  I  just  told  you  that  I  am  married  ?  " 

The  priest  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  All  that,  my 
son,  is  locked  in  the  confessional.  Why  make  a  moun- 
tain of  a  distant  molehill  ?  Need  your  two  worlds  ever 
clash  ?  You  lose  nothing.  You  give  peace  to  the  girl 
who  is  ready  to  renounce  the  rights  and  privileges  of 
Mother  Church  rather  than  say  a  word  that  might 
frighten  you  away.  She  made  me  swear  that  I  would 
never  breathe  to  you  of  marriage."  Gerry  smiled  but 
the  priest  continued  calmly,  "  the  girl  is  all  I  am  think- 
ing of  —  the  girl  and  the  children." 


132  HOME 

"  Children !  "  exclaimed  Gerry.  Years  with  Alix 
had  relegated  children  to  a  state  of  remote  contingency. 

It  was  the  priest's  turn  to  smile.  "  Yes,"  he  said, 
"  children.  They  happen,  somehow." 

Gerry  did  not  smile.  He  was  trying  to  picture  him- 
self in  relation  to  children. 

"  It  would  not  be  fair,"  continued  Father  Mathias, 
"  to  the  children.  This  place  is  Margarita's.  It  was 
worth  nothing  without  your  ditch.  It  will  soon  be 
worth  a  great  deal.  Say  you  died  —  say  you  left  her 
with  children  —  they  could  not  inherit.  After  all,  it 
is  a  small  thing  for  you  to  do.  You  and  I  will  know 
the  marriage  is  illegal,  but  it  is  big  odds  that  the  law 
will  never  know  it." 

"  Where  are  your  morals,  Father  ?  "  said  Gerry,  smil- 
ing. "  Do  you  counsel  me  to  live  a  lie  ?  " 

The  priest  snapped  his  fat  fingers.  "  In  the  balance 
against  peace  of  mind,  lies  are  feathers.  Besides,  we 
all  live  a  lie  anyway.  Our  ambition  should  be  to  live 
a  big,  kindly  lie  and  not  a  mean,  self-centered  one.  The 
ideal,  the  absolute  in  anything,  is  fleshless  —  bloodless 
We  speak  as  man  to  man,  eh  ?  Well,  when  years  have 
spread  out  life  behind  you,  you  will  look  back  and  see 
this  lesson;  happiness  contains  content,  but  happiness 
is  the  enemy  of  content.  They  who  pursue  the  greater 
may  lose  all ;  they  who  pursue  the  lesser  sometimes  ob- 
tain the  whole.  Behold  my  major  and  my  minor  prem- 
ise and  the  conclusion  is :  The  part  is  greater  than  the 
whole !  Thus  it  is  with  life,  my  son.  The  part  is  al- 
ways greater  than  the  whole  and  a  small  lie  may  help 
on  a  great  truth." 


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Gerry  smiled  at  the  Jesuitry.  It  appealed  to  him. 
It  fitted  in  with  the  inverted  order  of  things.  He  rose 
and  held  out  his  hand.  "  If  children  come,"  he  said, 
"  I  will  marry  her." 

The  priest  scramhled  to  his  feet,  his  face  wreathed 
in  smiles.  The  slanted  umbrella  framed  him  in  a 
gigantic  aureole.  "  One  more  indiscretion,"  he  said, 
"  and  this  time  the  confessional  is  not  the  source,  that 
is,  not  directly.  My  son,  you  had  better  marry  her 
straight  away." 

By  the  time  all  he  inferred  had  reached  Gerry's  brain 
Father  Mathias  had  climbed  his  mule  and  was  off  to 
the  house.  Gerry  followed  him  slowly.  He  did  not 
feel  as  though  he  were  about  to  pay  a  price.  The 
marriage  brought  thus  suddenly  to  his  contemplation 
would  be  no  meaningless  or  unlawful  form  to  him.  He 
would  make  it  a  solemn  consecration  to  fatherhood. 

When  he  reached  the  house,  Margarita,  standing  pant- 
ing and  frightened  beside  the  priest,  one  hand  on  her 
breast,  the  other  held  out  as  though  groping,  studied  his 
face  for  a  long  moment  and  then  hurled  herself  into  his 
arms.  He  held  her  close  and  laughed.  His  laughter 
was  low,  strong  like  himself,  reassuring.  Margarita 
was  quivering  and  sobbing.  He  had  never  heard  her 
weep  before.  Suddenly  she  stopped  and  raised  her  eyes 
to  his.  His  laughter  ceased.  Their  looks  intermingled 
and  held.  Each  made  to  the  other  an  unspoken  promise. 

The  next  morning  the  priest  left  them  again.  He 
held  his  weight  almost  jauntily  on  the  ambling  mule. 
His  wide-brimmed,  clerical  hat  was  pushed  back  to  the 
verge  of  a  fall  and  the  great  umbrella  was  slanted  to 


134  HOME 

meet  the  level  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  Priest  and  mule 
combined  to  give  the  impression  of  a  sea-going  tub 
rigged  in  rakish,  joyous  lines.  The  priest  was  jubilant. 
He  had  married  the  lovers  and  carried  with  him  the 
documents  for  registry.  Gerry  walked  beside  the  mule 
as  far  as  the  bridge.  There  the  tub  turned  laboriously 
and  its  convoy  with  it.  The  two  men  looked  over  the 
valley  and  smiled.  The  valley  smiled  back.  Already 
it  was  robed  in  a  wide-spread  flush  of  green.  The  priest 
nodded  slowly.  "  It  is  good,"  he  said.  "  Farewell,  my 
son,"  and  he  turned  to  sail  ponderously  out  into  the 
barren  lands  of  cactus  and  thorn. 

Gerry  watched  him  out  of  sight  and  then  turned  to 
his  work  of  tilling  the  soil.  He  cut  the  best  of  the 
cane  and  Bonifacio  planted  the  joints  at  a  slant  with 
knowing  hand.  He  sorted  the  bolls  of  cotton.  The 
women  studied  the  fiber  and  when  it  was  long,  silky  and 
tough  they  picked  out  the  seeds  with  care  and  hoarded 
them,  for  their  time  was  not  yet.  One  duty  urged  an- 
other. The  days  passed  rapidly. 

One  morning  Gerry  looked  up  from  his  labor  to  find 
a  mounted  figure  just  behind  him.  An  elderly  man  of 
florid  face  sat  a  restive  stallion  of  Arab  strain.  The 
stranger's  note  was  opulence.  From  his  Panama  hat, 
thin  and  light  as  paper,  to  his  silver  spurs  and  the 
silver-mounted  harness  of  his  horse,  wealth  marked  him. 
He  was  dressed  in  white  linen  and  his  flaring,  glossy  rid- 
ing-boots of  embroidered  Russian  leather  stood  out  from 
the  white  clothes  and  the  whiter  sheep's  fleece  that 
served  as  saddle  cloth,  with  telling  effect.  In  his  hands 
was  a  silver-mounted  rawhide  quirt.  His  face  was 


HOME  135 

grave,  his  eyes  blue  and  kindly.  As  Gerry  looked  at 
him  he  spoke,  "  I  'm  Lieber  from  up  the  river.  Father 
Mathias  told  me  about  you." 

Gerry  started  at  the  familiar  English  and  frowned. 
At  the  frown  the  stranger's  eyes  shifted.  "  I  did  n't 
come  down  here  to  bother  you,"  he  went  on  hastily. 
"  Father  Mathias  told  me  about  the  green  grass  and  I 
could  n't  keep  away.  I  've  got  cattle  and  horses  up  my 
way  and  they  're  dying  —  starving.  I  came  down  to 
make  a  deal.  I  've  picked  out  a  hundred  and  twenty 
head  with  blood  in  'em  —  horses  and  cattle.  If  you  '11 
take  'em  and  feed  'em  through  to  the  rains  I  '11  give  you 
ten  out  of  the  hundred.  Some  are  too  far  gone  to  save, 
I  'm  afraid." 

Gerry  looked  at  his  tiny  plantations  which  showed 
up  meanly  in  the  great  expanse  of  waste  pasture. 
"  I  'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "  but  I  'm  afraid  I  can't.  You 
see,  I  can't  afford  to  fence." 

Lieber  looked  around  and  nodded.  "  That 's  all 
right,"  he  said,  "  I  've  got  a  lot  of  old  wire  that 's  no 
use  to  me  and  a  lot  of  loafers  to  tear  it  down  and  put  it 
up.  I  '11  fence  as  much  pasture  as  you  say  and  throw 
in  the  fencing  on  the  deal." 

"  That 's  mighty  fair,"  said  Gerry;  "  I  '11  take  you." 
He  dropped  his.  hoe.  "Won't  you  come  down  to  the 
house  and  have  a  bite  to  eat  ?  "  He  turned  and  Lieber 
started  to  follow.  "  By  the  way,"  said  Gerry  over  his 
shoulder,  "  you  're  not  a  German,  are  you  ?  " 

Lieber  stopped  his  horse.  His  eyes  wavered.  "  No," 
he  said  shortly,  "  I  'm  not.  I  'm  an  American.  After 
all,  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  waste  any  time.  Hours 


136  HOME 

tell  with  starving  stock.  I  '11  just  get  back  in  a  hurry, 
if  you  don't  mind.  My  men  and  the  wire  will  be  here 
just  that  much  sooner." 

Gerry  frowned  again  but  this  time  at  himself.  He 
felt  that  he  had  stepped  on  another  man's  corns  while 
defending  his  own.  "  All  right,  Mr.  Lieber,"  he  said. 
"  The  sooner  the  better.  I  '11  do  all  I  can  to  help." 

The  next  morning  the  men  came  accompanied  by  ox- 
carts loaded  with  fencing,  posts  and  all.  Lieber  was 
with  them.  He  sat  his  horse  through  the  hot  hours  and 
drove  his  men  steadily.  Gerry  threw  himself  into  the 
work  as  foreman.  The  fence  grew  with  amazing  rapid- 
ity. From  the  bridge  they  carried  it  in  a  straight  line 
past  the  house  to  the  river.  It  cut  off  a  vast  triangle 
whose  two  other  sides  were  held  by  the  ditch  and  the 
river.  By  night  the  work  was  almost  done.  Gerry  was 
tired  and  happy,  but  he  sighed.  How  many  weeks  of 
toil  would  not  he  and  Bonifacio  have  had  to  put  in  to 
accomplish  that  fence !  Money  assumed  a  new  aspect  in 
his  thoughts.  What  could  he  not  do  if  he  had  money 
to  buy  material  and  to  pay  labor  ?  How  he  could  make 
a  little  money  grow!  He  thought  of  the  bank  account 
at  home  that  must  be  piling  up  in  his  name.  But  some- 
how the  thought  of  that  money  was  not  tantalizing. 
That  solution  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  present  prob- 
lem of  life.  That  money  seemed  unrelated  to  himself 
now  —  unrelated  to  effort.  It  did  not  belong  in  the 
scheme  of  things. 

Lieber  stayed  the  night  with  them  and  Gerry  studied 
and  imitated  the  older  man's  impersonality.  Lieber 
kept  his  eyes  on  his  plate  or  in  the  vague  distance  while 


HOME  137 

the  women  attended  them  and  as  soon  as  the  business 
of  eating  was  over  he  retired  to  the  room  that  had  been 
allotted  to  him. 

He  was  up  early  in  the  morning  and  away  to  meet  the 
coming  herd.  First  came  the  horses,  neighing  and 
quickening  their  weak  trot  at  the  smell  of  grass.  Far 
away  and  like  a  distorted  echo  sounded  the  lowing  of 
the  slower  cattle.  The  little  herd  of  Fazenda  Flores 
caught  the  moaning  cry  and  lifted  lazy  heads.  One  or 
two  lowed  back. 

The  horses  were  rounded  up  at  the  bridge  to  await  the 
cattle.  They  stretched  thin  necks  toward  the  calling 
grass  and  moved  restlessly  about  with  quick  turns  of 
eager  heads  and  low  impatient  whinnies.  Lieber  sat 
his  stable-fed  stallion  stolidly,  but  his  eyes  grew  moist 
as  he  looked  over  the  bony  lot  of  horses.  "  They  must 
wait  for  the  cattle,"  he  said  to  Gerry.  "  A  fair  start 
and  no  favor.  God,  if  you  could  have  seen  them  three 
months  ago !  " 

The  cattle  came  up  in  a  rapid  shamble  that  carried 
them  slowly  for  they  were  staggering  in  short,  quick 
steps.  Their  heads  hung  almost  to  the  ground.  They 
had  no  shame.  They  moaned  pitifully  —  continually. 

Gerry  opened  the  wire  gap.  The  horses  gave  an 
anticipatory  whirl  and  then  dashed  through.  They  for- 
got their  weakness.  They  galloped  down  the  slope, 
spurning  beneath  their  feet  the  food  they  had  longed 
for.  They  did  not  stop  till  they  reached  the  rich  bot- 
toms. Lieber  smiled  affectionately.  "  There  's  spirit 
for  you,"  he  said. 

The  cattle  followed  but  the  men  had  to  beat  the  first 


138  HOME 

through  away  from  the  gap.  They  had  stopped  to  eat 
and  had  blocked  the  way.  At  last  they  were  all  in  and 
the  gap  closed.  One  or  two  stood  with  straddled  feet 
and  continued  to  low,  their  lips  just  brushing  the  lush 
grass.  "  Poor  beasts,"  said  Lieber,  the  smile  gone  from 
his  face,  "  they  are  too  weak  to  eat." 

He  and  Gerry  went  back  to  the  house  for  breakfast. 
The  herders  sat  and  smoked.  They  had  had  coffee;  it 
would  see  them  through  half  the  day.  Before  Lieber 
left,  the  horses  were  herded  once  more  and  with  much 
trouble  driven  out  upon  the  desert.  Lieber  turned  to 
Gerry.  "  Don't  let  them  back  in  until  to-morrow, 
please,"  he  said.  "  If  you  do,  they  '11  founder." 

"  What  about  the  cattle  ?  "  asked  Gerry. 

"  The  cattle  are  all  right.  They  have  n't  enough 
spirit  left  to  kill  themselves  eating.  They  '11  begin  ly- 
ing down  pretty  soon.  Good-by,  and  remember,  you  '11 
get  a  warm  welcome  up  at  Lieber' s  whenever  you  feel 
like  riding  over." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Gerry.     "  Good-by." 

He  watched  Lieber  ride  away  on  the  road  the  priest 
had  taken.  Pazenda  Flores,  his  isolated  refuge,  was 
beginning  to  link  itself  to  a  world,  Man,  like  a  vine, 
has  tendrils.  To  climb  he  must  reach  them  out  and 
cling. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  horses  picked  up  rapidly,  the  cattle  more 
slowly.  Two  calves,  added  to  the  herd  over 
night,  aroused  memories  of  the  home  farm  in  Gerry's 
breast.  Every  morning  he  stood  by  the  pasture  fence 
and  gazed  with  a  thrill  on  the  new  life  in  the  scene.  A 
fluttering  corn  husk  or  the  wave  of  a  hand  was  enough 
to  start  the  horses  careering  over  the  fields.  Life  had 
sprung  up  in  them  anew.  They  played  at  being  afraid. 
They  leaped  mere  hummocks  as  though  they  were  walls. 
Heads  and  tails  held  high,  they  breasted  the  morning 
breeze  in  a  vigorous,  resounding  trot.  Here  and  there 
heels  were  flung  high.  The  trot  echoed  in  a  rapid  cres- 
cendo that  broke  and  was  lost  in  a  wild  clatter  of  hoofs, 
beating  out  the  music  of  a  mad  gallop.  The  cattle, 
all  but  a  few  that  still  hovered  between  life  and  death, 
now  stood  sturdily  on  four  legs.  They  lifted  their 
heads  slowly  and  gazed  mild-eyed  at  the  romping  horses. 
Resurrection  was  becoming  a  familiar  miracle  to 
Gerry  —  a  sort  of  staccato  accompaniment  to  life. 
Like  himself,  like  Fazenda  Flores,  all  these  had  been 
plunged  in  young  ruin.  He  began  to  see  the  line  be- 
tween ruin  and  death.  Ruin  is  fruitful.  It  holds  a 
seed.  He  could  see  it  in  Fazenda  Flores,  in  the  horses 
and  cattle,  and  give  it  a  name  but  he  had  not  visualized 
it  in  himself.  He  had  no  time  and  no  inclination  now 

139 


140  HOME 

for  introspection.  Without  analysis  he  felt  that  he  was 
at  one  with  the  world  into  which  he  had  fallen.  It 
held  him  as  though  to  an  allotted  place. 

The  reward  of  those  long  months  of  preparation  was 
at  hand.  Once  every  spade  thrust  had  seemed  but  the 
precursor  to  barren  effort.  Now  every  stroke  of  the  hoe 
seemed  to  bring  forth  a  fresh  green  leaf.  Life  fell  into 
an  entrancing  monotone.  It  became  an  endless  chain 
that  forged  its  own  links  and  lengthened  out  into  an  end- 
less perspective.  Days  passed.  The  arrival  of  Lieber's 
foreman  to  see  how  the  stock  was  progressing  was  an 
event.  He  brought  with  him  an  old  saddle  and  bridle 
-  a  gift  from  Lieber  to  Gerry.  "  He  says,"  the  fore- 
man remarked  with  a  leer,  on  making  the  presentation, 
"  you  can  ride  anything  you  can  catch." 

Gerry  felt  the  foreman  needed  putting  in  place.  He 
went  into  the  house  and  reappeared  carrying  something 
in  his  hat.  He  climbed  the  fence  and  called.  The 
horses  raised  their  heads  and  looked.  Some  were  lazy 
after  watering  but  the  others  trotted  over  toward  him. 
They  stopped  a  few  yards  off  and  scrutinized  him  as 
though  to  divine  his  intentions.  Then  they  approached 
cautiously,  with  tense  legs,  ready  to  whirl  and  bolt. 
A  greedy  colt  refused  to  play  the  game  of  fear  to  a 
finish.  He  strode  forward  and  was  rewarded  with  a 
large  lump  of  sugar.  The  sugar  was  coarse  and  black, 
first  cousin  to  virgin  molasses,  but  it  was  redolent.  The 
horses  crowded  around  Gerry.  They  pawed  at  him. 
He  had  to  beat  them  back.  They  made  a  bold  assault 
on  the  empty  but  odorous  .hat.  Gerry  laughed  and 
cleared  the  fence  to  get  away  from  them.  "I  think 


HOME  141 

your  master  must  be  mistaken,"  he  said  with  a  smile  to 
the  foreman.  "  Some  of  these  colts  can  never  have 
been  backed." 

The  foreman  looked  his  admiration.  He  began  to 
take  Gerry  seriously;  it  was  man  to  man  now.  He 
pointed  out  the  horses  that  were  broken  to  saddle  and 
named  their  gaits  and  mettle.  Then  his  shrewd  eyes 
looked  around  for  further  details  to  add  to  his  report 
to  his  master.  He  noted  that  a  few,  a  very  few,  of  the 
cattle  were  still  lying  down  when  they  should  have  been 
on  their  feet  and  eating.  These  were  herded  into  a 
corner  of  their  own  and  old  Bonifacio  was  tending  them. 
Beside  each  was  a  pile  of  fresh  cut  grass.  As  they  ate 
they  nosed  it  away,  but  Bonifacio  made  the  rounds  and 
with  his  foot  pushed  back  the  fodder,  keeping  it  in  easy 
reach. 

The  foreman's  eyes  caught  on  the  two  new-born  calves. 
They  had  been  taken  from  their  weak  mothers  and  were 
in  a  rough  pen  by  themselves.  The  foreman  did  not 
have  to  count  the  stock  to  see  that  none  was  missing. 
He  was  cattle  bred.  A  gap  in  the  herd  or  the  bunch  of 
horses  would  have  flown  at  the  seventh  sense  of  the  stock- 
man the  moment  he  laid  eyes  on  the  field.  Instead  there 
were  these  two  calves.  "  Master,"  he  said  to  Gerry, 
"  you  have  made  up  your  mind  not  to  lose  a  head.  You 
would  save  even  these  little  ones,  born  before  their 
time!" 

Gerry  nodded  gravely.  He  had  worked  hard  to  save 
all.  He  winced  at  the  mere  thought  of  death  at 
Fazenda  Flores  even  down  to  these  least  weaklings.  He 
himself  had  fed  them  patiently  from  a  warm  bottle.  In 


142  HOME 

trouble  and  valuable  time  they  had  cost  him  an  acre  of 
cotton.  But  an  acre  of  cotton  was  a  small  price  to  pay 
for  life. 

A  grip  of  the  hand  and  the  foreman  was  off 
in  a  cloud  of  dust.  At  the  bridge  he  pulled  his  horse 
down  to  the  shambling  fox  trot  that  spares  beast  and 
man  but  eats  steadily  into  a  long  journey.  A  bearer  of 
good  tidings  rides  slowly. 

Gerry  turned  to  his  work  but  a  cry  from  the  house 
arrested  him.  He  listened.  The  cry  was  followed  by 
a  moan.  He  dropped  his  field  tools  and  ran  to  the 
house.  All  was  commotion.  The  day  of  days  had 
come  to  Margarita  with  the  appalling  suddenness  of  an 
event  too  long  expected.  She  called  for  Gerry.  He 
went  to  her.  She  looked  a  mere  child  in  the  big  rough 
bed  he  had  made  with  his  own  hands.  Suffering  had 
struck  the  light  from  her  face.  She  was  frightened 
and  clung  to  him. 

Joana,  the  old  negress,  and  Dona  Maria  made 
methodical  haste  about  the  room.  At  the  second  cry 
from  Margarita  Gerry  lost  his  head.  These  women 
were  hard,  they  were  iron.  They  paid  no  attention. 
"  Something  must  be  done.  Something  must  be  done," 
he  said  aloud  in  English.  The  aunt  and  the  negress 
worked  on  in  silent  preparation  of  the  preparations  of 
many  days.  Margarita  screamed.  They  paid  no  heed. 
Her  frenzied  grip  bit  into  Gerry's  hand.  "  We  must 
have  a  doctor,"  he  shouted  in  their  own  tongue  to  the 
women.  "  Do  you  hear  ?  We  must  have  a  doctor !  " 
Cold  sweat  was  gathering  on  his  brow.  He  too  was 
frightened. 


HOME  143 

Dona  Maria  glanced  at  him.  "  A  doctor  ?  "  she  cried 
impatiently.  "  What  for  ?  The  girl  is  not  ill." 

"  Not  ill !     Not  ill !  "  roared  Gerry. 

Dona  Maria  picked  up  two  towels  and  tied  them  to  the 
bed's  head.  She  tore  Margarita's  hands  from  Gerry's ; 
then  she  twisted  the  towels  into  ropes  and  gripped  the 
girl's  hands  on  them.  "  Hold  on  to  those,"  she  com- 
manded. "  Towels  have  some  sense."  Then  she 
clawed  Gerry  out  of  his  seat  by  the  bed  and  hustled  him 
out  of  the  room  —  out  of  the  house.  The  door  slammed 
behind  him.  He  heard  the  great  bar  drop.  He  was 
locked  out. 

Gerry  paced  angrily  up  and  down  the  veranda. 
Calm  came  back  to  him.  He  saw  that  he  had  been  a 
fool.  He  stopped  and  sat  down  on  the  steps  of  the 
veranda.  Here,  before  he  had  made  his  benches,  she 
had  often  sat  beside  him,  caressed  him,  sung  to  him. 
How  cold  he  had  been.  How  little  he  had  done  for 
her  and  now  she  was  doing  this  for  him !  He  remem- 
bered that  as  she  had  worked  on  baby  clothes  she  had 
said  she  wished  she  had  some  blue  ribbon.  They  had 
all  laughed  at  her,  but  she  had  nodded  her  girl's  head 
gravely  and  said,  "  Yes,  I  wish  I  had  some  blue  ribbon 
—  a  little  roll  of  blue  ribbon."  What  a  brute  he  had 
been  to  laugh! 

The  cries  ceased  but  the  door  did  not  open.  Gerry 
still  waited.  He  knew  he  was  waiting  and  that  the 
women  in  the  house  were  waiting.  It  was  terrible  to 
wait  —  more  terrible  than  the  cries.  Then  she  called 
to  him,  "  Geree !  Geree !  "  He  leaped  up  and  pounded 
on  the  door  but  nobody  came.  Yesterday  they  had  all 


144  HOME 

been  servile  to  him ;  to-day  he  was  nothing.  He  shouted, 
"  I  am  here  1  I  shall  always  be  here."  She  did  not 
call  again.  He  paced  up  and  down  the  veranda  saying 
to  himself,  "  A  little  roll  of  blue  ribbon  —  a  little  roll 
of  blue  ribbon  I  "  He  stumbled  on  the  saddle  that 
Lieber  had  sent  him.  It  held  his  eye.  He  picked  up 
the  bridle  and  ran  down  to  the  pasture.  He  caught  the 
oldest  and  gentlest  of  the  horses,  opened  a  gap  in  the 
fence  and  led  him  out.  Then  he  called  Bonifacio. 
"  Listen,"  he  said,  "  you  must  take  the  fattest  of  the 
steers  —  the  red  one  with  the  blazed  face  —  you  must 
drive  him  into  the  town  and  sell  him." 

The  darky  demurred.  "  It  is  too  late  for  market, 
master." 

"  It  does  not  matter.  You  must  do  as  I  say,"  said 
Gerry  angrily.  "  You  must  sell  the  steer.  If  you  can 
not  sell  him  you  must  give  him  for  blue  ribbon.  Do 
you  understand  ?  You  must  bring  back  blue  ribbon  for 
your  mistress.  She  says  she  must  have  a  little  roll  of 
blue  ribbon." 

The  darky  acquiesced.  Together  they  saddled  the  old 
horse  and  Bonifacio,  armed  with  a  long  bamboo  to  prod 
the  fat  steer,  mounted  and  cut  out  his  charge  from  the 
herd.  Gerry  accompanied  him  to  the  bridge.  "  You 
understand,  blue  ribbon.  A  roll  of  blue  ribbon,"  he 
shouted. 

The  old  darky  nodded  gravely  and  repeated,  "  Yes, 
master,  a  roll  of  blue  ribbon.  The  mistress  wishes  a 
roll  of  blue  ribbon.  I  '11  not  forget." 

The  steer  looked  back  from  the  desert  to  the  green 
of  the  pasture  and  lowed.  The  darky  prodded  him 


HOME  145 

with  his  stick.  The  steer  lowed  again  and  then 
shambled  off  down  the  trail.  Horse  and  rider  followed 
slowly.  Gerry  watched  them  until  they  were  a  mere 
patch  of  dust  in  the  distance;  then  he  hurried  back  to 
the  house  and  sat  down  to  wait  again. 

Night  came  and  with  it  horror.  The  ordeal  was  on 
in  earnest  now.  Gerry  stopped  his  ears  with  his  fingers 
and  sat  doggedly  on.  Hours  passed  and  Bonifacio  re- 
turned. He  laid  a  little  package  and  some  money  beside 
his  master.  He  unsaddled  the  old  horse  and  turned 
him  into  the  pasture;  then  he  came  back,  sat  down  at 
Gerry's  feet  and  slept.  Gerry  looked  with  wonder  on 
his  nodding  head.  He  took  his  fingers  from  his  ears. 
On  the  instant  a  high,  unearthly  shriek  seemed  to  rend 
itself  through  flesh  —  through  walls  —  and  then  tore  on 
swift  wings  into  the  vast  silence  that  stretched  away  into 
the"  night.  The  ear  could  trace  —  the  eye  could  almost 
follow  —  the  terrifying  flight  of  this  demon  of  sound  as 
it  hurtled  out  over  the  valley,  over  the  still  trees  and  the 
black  water,  until  it  crashed  against  the  far  banks  of 
the  river  and  died.  Gerry  dropped  his  face  in  his 
hands  and  sobbed.  A  low  moaning  was  coming  from 
the  house  and  then  a  new,  strange  sound  —  a  sound  that 
struck  straight  at  the  heart  —  the  first  wail  of  the  first 
born.  The  moaning  caught  on  that  cry,  stumbled  and 
recovered  into  a  thin,  weak  laugh.  Pain  had  passed  and 
with  the  child  was  born  laughter. 

Gerry  sat  stunned.  It  seemed  incredible.  That 
shriek  and  then  moaning  and  laughter  in  one  weak 
breath !  Was  pain  —  such  pain  —  so  short  lived  ? 
The  echo  of  the  terrible  shriek  still  rang  in  his  ears. 


146  HOME 

Then  the  door  opened  and  Dona  Maria  came  bustling 
out.  "  Come  in,"  she  cried ;  "  thou  art  the  father  of 
a  man  child." 

Gerry  went  in  and  knelt  beside  the  bed.  Margarita 
looked  at  him  and  smiled  faintly,  proudly.  He  laid 
the  little  roll  of  blue  ribbon  in  her  weak  hand.  She 
turned  her  head  slowly  and  looked  down.  She  saw  the 
glint  of  blue  and  understood.  She  turned  her  eyes, 
swimming  black  pools  in  a  white,  drawn  face,  to  Gerry. 
To  sacrifice  she  added  adoration. 


CHAPTEE  XXII 

THE  calm  which  had  settled  on  Alix's  life  puzzled 
her.  She  wondered  if  she  was  beginning  to  miss 
Gerry  less.  And  then  she  remembered  that  she  could 
never  have  really  missed  him  because  she  had  never 
really  known  him.  Collingeford  had  brought  a  fresh 
note  into  existence.  She  felt  that  at  the  end  of  his  week 
on  the  Hill  he  had  fled  from  her  —  fled  from  falling 
in  love  with  her.  She  knew  that  he  would  come  back. 
How  should  she  meet  him? 

She  was  still  debating  the  point  when  Collingeford 
arrived  in  the  city.  Upon  arrival  he  called  on  Mrs.  J. 
Y.  and  then  on  Nance  and  then,  of  course,  on  Alix.  As 
she  came  into  the  room  he  felt  a  strange  fluttering  in 
his  throat.  It  stopped  his  words  of  greeting.  He  stut- 
tered and  stared.  He  had  never  felt  so  glad  at  the  sight 
of  any  one. 

"  What  are  you  looking  so  dismayed  about  ? "  cried 
Alix  with  a  smile  and  holding  out  her  hand.  "  Has  a 
short  year  changed  me  so  much  ?  Am  I  so  thin  or  so 
fat?" 

Collingeford  recovered  himself.  "  Neither  too  thin 
nor  too  fat.  It  is  perfection,  not  imperfection,  that  dis- 
mays a  man.  You  call  it  a  short  year  ? "  he  added 
gravely.  "  It 's  been  an  eternity  —  not  a  year !  " 

But  Alix  was  not  to  be  diverted  from  her  tone  of 

147 


148  HOME 

badinage.  She  looked  him  over  critically.  "Well," 
she  said,  "  I  congratulate  you.  I  did  n't  know  before 
that  bronze  could  bronze.  What  a  lot  of  health  you 
carry  about  with  you." 

Collingeford  smiled.  "  Clem  said  I  looked  as  though 
I  had  been  living  on  babies." 

"  Clem !  "  said  Alix.  "  Well,  I  never  knew  that 
young  lady  to  stoop  to  flattery  before.  Anyway,  she  's 
wrong.  You  're  not  pink  enough." 

"  Pink !  "  snorted  Collingeford.  "  I  should  hope 
not." 

They  sat  and  stared  at  each  other.  Each  found  the 
other  good  to  look  upon.  Seen  alone,  Collingeford's 
tall,  tense  figure  or  the  fragile  quality  of  Alix's  pale 
beauty,  would  have  seemed  hard  to  match.  Seen  to- 
gether, they  were  wonderfully  in  tone.  Alix  grew  grave 
under  inspection,  Collingeford  nervous.  "  There  is  no 
news  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  None,"  said  Alix  and  a  far-away  look  came  into  her 
eyes  as  if  her  mind  were  off,  thousands  of  miles,  intent 
on  a  search  of  its  own. 

Collingeford  broke  the  spell.  He  jumped  up  and 
said  he  had  come  for  just  one  thing  —  to  take  her  out 
for  a  walk.  It  was  one  of  those  nippy  early  winter 
afternoons  cut  out  to  fit. a  walk.  Alix  must  put  on  her 
things.  She  did  and  together  they  walked  the  long 
length  of  the  Avenue  and  out  into  the  park. 

By  that  time  they  had  decided  it  was  quite  a  warm 
afternoon  after  all  —  almost  warm  enough  to  sit  down. 
They  tried  it.  Collingeford  sat  half  turned  on  the 
bench  and  devoured  Alix  with  his  eyes. 


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A  full-blooded,  clean  young  man  in  the  presence  of 
beauty  is  not  a  reasonable  being.  Collingeford  was  try- 
ing to  be  reasonable  and  was  failing  utterly  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  he  did  not  say  a  word.  And  just  as  he 
was  going  to  say  a  word  Alix  gave  him  a  full,  measur- 
ing look  and  said,  almost  hastily,  "  It  is  too  cold,  after 
all.  Quite  chilly.  It  was  our  walking  so  fast  deceived 
us."  She  rose  and  started  tentatively  toward  the  gate. 
"  Come  on,  Honorable  Percy,"  she  said  playfully. 

Collingeford  caught  up  with  her  and  said  moodily, 
"  If  you  call  me  Honorable  Percy  again  I  shall  dub 
you  Honest  Alix." 

They  were  walking  down  the  Avenue.  "  Honest  Alix 
is  n't  half  bad,"  he  continued  thoughtfully.  "  The  race 
has  got  into  the  habit  of  yoking  the  word  honest  to  our 
attitude  toward  other  people's  pennies  but  it 's  a  good 
old  word  that  stands  for  trustworthy,  sincere,  truthful 
and  all  the  other  adjectives  that  fit  straight  riding." 

"  Speaking  of  riding,  Mr.  Collingeford,  you  're  riding 
for  a  fall."  Alix  glanced  at  him  meaningly. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  "  he  stammered  and  then  went 
on  rather  sullenly,  "  Anyway,  you  're  wrong.  I  'm  not. 
But  I  was  just  going  to."  He  prodded  viciously  at  the 
cracks  in  the  pavement  with  his  stick. 

"Don't,"  said  Alix.  "Don't  do  that,  I  mean. 
You  '11  break  your  stick  and  it 's  the  one  I  like." 

Collingeford  turned  a  flushed  face  to  her.  "  Look 
here,  Alix,"  he  said,  "  you  are  honest  and  sincere  and  all 
those  things  I  said.  Don't  let 's  hedge  —  not  just  now. 
If  your  bad  luck  does  n't  let  up  —  if  you  learn  anything 
—  anything  you  don't  want  to  know  —  I  can't  say  it 


150  HOME 

right  out  —  would  you  —  d'  you  think  you  ever 
would—" 

Alix  did  not  smile.  He  was  too  much  in  earnest  and 
she  liked  him  too  much  —  was  too  much  at  one  with 
him  —  not  to  feel  what  he  was  going  through.  "  I  like 
your  Honest  Alix/'  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  and  I  'm 
going  to  let  her  do  the  talking  for  a  moment.  If  I 
learned  absolutely  that  —  that  Gerry  can  never  come 
back  to  me,  there  is  no  man  that  I  would  turn  to  quicker 
than  to  you."  Collingeford  gave  her  a  grateful  look 
and  the  flush  under  his  tan  deepened.  "  Don't  mis- 
understand me,"  she  went  on.  "  I  like  you  a  whole  lot, 
but  I  have  never  thought  of  marrying  any  one  but  Gerry. 
I  'd  like  to  marry  Gerry.  I  've  never  married  him  yet. 
Not  really." 

They  walked  on  for  some  time  in  silence.  Collinge- 
ford's  thoughts  had  raced  away  southwards  and  Alix's 
followed  them  unerringly.  "  Don't  make  one  horrible 
mistake,  Percy,"  she  said  when  she  was  sure.  "  Don't 
imagine  that  I  could  ever  love  the  bearer  of  ill  tidings." 

Collingeford  flushed,  this  time  with  shame.  "  No,  of 
course  not,"  he  stammered. 

"  You  see, —  or  can't  you  see  ?  "  she  went  on,  "  that 
all  this  new  life  of  mine  I  've  hung  on  to  a  single  hook 
of  faith.  If  the  hook  breaks  —  and  sometimes  it  seems 
as  if  it  must  be  wearing  pretty  thin  —  this  new  me 
must  tumble.  I  have  spun  about  myself  a  silky  dark- 
ness and  I  have  waited  to  break  into  light  for  Gerry.  I 
could  not  break  out  from  this  probation  for  any  other 
man.  I  do  not  mean  that  a  woman  can  love  but  once  — 
not  necessarily.  But  I  do  think  that  one's  life  must 


HOME  151 

spring  from  a  new  chrysalis  to  meet  a  new  love  fairly. 
Second  loves  at  first  sight  have  a  tang  of  the  bargain 
counter  and  the  ready  made.  Love  is  not  a  chance 
tenant.  He  must  build  or  grow  into  a  new  home." 

They  walked  on  in  a  full  silence.  Collingeford's 
shoulders  drooped.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt 
old.  "  You  are  right  —  you  are  always  right,"  he  said 
at  last.  "  I  shall  go  away  —  somewhere  where  it 's 
easy  to  sweat." 

"  Somewhere  where  it 's  easy  to  sweat !  "  exclaimed 
Alix.  "  What  an  ugly  thought." 

"  It 's  only  Bbdsky,"  said  Collingeford  reminiscently. 
"  Bodsky  says  you  can  drown  any  woman's  memory  in 
sweat.  Good  old  Bod!  I  wonder  where  I  shall  find 
him." 

"  Oh,"  said  Alix,  "  if  it 's  Bodsky's,  one  must  n't 
quarrel  with  it  simply  because  it  is  ugly.  But  — " 

"  But  what  ?  "  said  Collingeford. 

"  I  was  going  to  say,  ( But  what  naked  language ! ' 
Perhaps  it  is  one  of  those  truths  one  shrinks  from  be- 
cause it  starts  in  by  slapping  one's  face.  Anyway,  even 
if  it  is  a  truth,  it 's  horrid.  It  hurts  a  woman  to  be  for- 
gotten." 

Collingeford  smiled.  "  Just  so,"  he  said  and  stopped 
before  an  up-town  ticket  agency.  "  Do  you  mind  ? " 
he  asked,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  They  went  in  and 
he  bought  a  passage  for  England.  He  was  to  sail  the 
following  afternoon.  He  looked  so  glum  over  it  that 
Alix  consented  to  lunch  with  him  and  see  him  off. 

He  came  for  her  the  next  day  a  little  late  but,  when 
she  saw  his  face,  she  felt  a  shock  and  forgot  to  chide 


152  HOME 

him.  Her  eyes  mirrored  the  trouble  in  his  but  some- 
how she  felt  that  it  was  not  the  parting  from  her  that 
had  turned  him  pale  in  a  night.  He  helped  her  into  the 
waiting  cab  and  then  sank  back  into  his  corner. 

Alix  laid  her  gloved  hand  on  his  knee.  "  What  is 
it  ?  "  she  asked. 

Collingeford's  face  twitched.  He  fixed  his  eyes 
through  the  cab  window  on  nothing.  "  Bodsky,"  he 
said,  "  is  dead.  He  has  been  dead  for  months." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Alix,  "  I  'm  sorry.  I  'm  sorry  for  you." 
She  did  not  try  to  say  any  more.  She  had  put  all  her 
heart  into  those  few  words. 

Collingeford  drew  out  his  pocket-book  and  took  from 
it  a  soiled  sheet  of  paper  —  a  leaf  torn  from  a  field 
note-book.  He  held  it  out  to  her  with  trembling  hand. 
"  I  would  n't  show  it  to  any  one  else.  Trouble  has 
made  you  great-hearted.  When  you  said  you.  were  sorry 
you  felt  it  so  that  the  words  just  choked  out.  I  need 
to  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  must  talk  —  talk  a  whole 
lot.  Sometimes  a  man  must  talk  or  blubber.  Read 
it." 

Alix  puzzled  over  the  slip  of  paper.  "  What 's  the 
name  of  the  place  ?  I  can't  make  it  out." 

"  It 's  a  little  hole  on  the  borders  of  Thibet.  That 
paper  's  been  handed  along  for  five  months.  The  en- 
velope it  came  in  was  in  tatters." 

"  Dear  Old  Pal,"  read  Alix,  "  Do  you  remember 
what  I  used  to  tell  you  ?  When  a  man  has  seen  all  the 
world  he  must  go  home  or  die.  When  we  last  parted  I 
had  three  places  left  to  see,  but  they  have  n't  lasted  me 
as  long  as  I  thought  they  would.  I  have  sent  you  my 


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battery.  The  bores  are  a  bit  too  big  for  the  new  powder 
and  you  can't  use  the  guns,  I  know,  but  you  '11  have  a 
home,  old  man,  and  you  can  give  them  a  place  in  a  rack. 
They  will  make  a  little  room  as  wide  as  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  I  did  n't  kill  her.  I  made  her  kill  herself. 
Bodsky." 

Alix  was  puzzled  again  but  then  she  remembered. 
"  So  he  did  n't  kill  her,  after  all,"  she  said. 

"  Kill  her !  Kill  what  ?  "  said  Collingeford.  "  Oh, 
yes.  I  remember.  As  if  that  mattered." 

"  It  matters.     It  does  matter,"  cried  Alix,  outraged. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Collingeford.  "  I  had  forgotten 
that  you  never  knew  Bodsky.  You  said  yesterday  that 
Bodsky  used  naked  language.  You  were  right.  Bod- 
sky undressed  things.  Just  as  some  people  see  red 
and  some  blue,  Bodsky  saw  things  naked.  He  could 
look  through  a  black  robe  of  rumor  spangled  with  lies 
and  see  truth  naked.  He  was  naked  himself  —  naked 
and  unashamed.  It 's  hard  for  me  to  make  you  see  be- 
cause you  did  not  know  him.  Bodsky  was  one  of  those 
men  who  could  have  accomplished  anything  —  only  he 
didn't.  He  sifted  life  through  a  big  mesh.  All  the 
non-essentials  —  the  trivialities  —  fell  through.  An 
act  with  Bodsky  was  a  volition,  measured,  weighed,  and 
then  hurled.  That 's  why  if  you  knew  him  you  knew 
that  in  his  hands  a  crime  was  not  a  crime.  That 's 
why  I  know  that  he  is  dead.  He  never  used  a  stale 
cartridge  —  his  gun  never  missed  fire." 

Alix  mused.  "  I  can't  see  him  —  I  can't  quite  see 
him.  A  man  who  can  accomplish  anything  and  does  n't 
seems  wrong  —  a  waste." 


154  HOME 

"  You  can't  see,"  said  Collingeford,  "  because  you  are 
facing  my  point  of  view.  You  must  turn  around. 
Bodsky  used, to  say  that  all  humanity  had  a  soul,  but 
it  took  a  tragedy  to  make  a  man.  His  tragedy  was  that 
life  cut  him  out  from  the  herd.  He  was  n't  a  creator, 
he  was  a  creation.  Generations,  races,  eons,  created 
Bodsky  and  left  him  standing  like  a  scarred  crag.  He 
had  but  one  mission  —  to  see  and  understand.  Have 
you  ever  sat  in  the  desert  on  a  moonlit  night  and  looked 
at  the  Sphinx  ?  It  holds  you  —  it  holds  your  eyes  in 
a  vice.  You  wonder  why.  I  '11  tell  you.  It  knows. 
That 's  the  way  it  was  with  Bodsky.  He  only  towered 
—  knew  —  understood.  If  that  is  nothing,  Bodsky  was 
nothing." 

They  were  silent.  Presently  Collingeford  helped  her 
out  and  together  they  passed  through  the  rich  foyer,  the 
latticed  palm  room,  and  up  the  steps  into  the  latest  cry  in 
dining-rooms.  A  little  table  in  the  far  corner  had  been 
reserved  for  them.  As  they  crossed  the  crowded  room 
a  hush  fell  over  the  tables.  Some  looked  and  were 
silent  because  Alix  was  beautiful  and  daintily  gowned 
and  Collingeford  all  that  a  man  should  be,  but 
those  who  knew  looked  because  Alix  was  Alix  and  Col- 
lingeford was  Collingeford.  These  soon  fell  to  whisper- 
ing, predicting  a  match.  Alix  bowed  abstractedly  here 
and  there  as  she  followed  the  head  waiter  to  her  seat. 

They  sat  down,  each  half  facing  the  room.  Alix 
caught  her  breath.  "  Whining  the  old  air  ?  "  asked  Col- 
lingeford. 

"  No,"  answered  Alix.  "  Only  sighing.  I  feel  so 
out  of  it  and  that  always  makes  one  sigh  whether  one 


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wants  to  be  in  it  or  not.  I  know  it  all  so  well  that 
this  amounts  to  a  disillusion.  Time  and  absence  have 
turned  into  a  binocular  and  I  'm  looking  through  the 
wrong  end.  I  see  things  clear  but  tiny.  There 's 
little  Mrs.  Deathe,  pronounced  Deet,  and  she  isn't  a 
day  older.  But  now  I  see  that  she  was  born  as  old  as 
she  '11  ever  be." 

"  Good/'  said  Collingeford. 

"  And  with  her  is  Mrs.  Remmer.  She  's  gone  in  for 
the  little  diamond  veil  brooches.  They  ruin  the  effect 
of  a  simply  stunning  hat  but,  as  always,  she  has  rushed 
at  the  newest,  expensive  fad.  I  didn't  know  why  be- 
fore, but  somehow  I  can  tell  you  now.  She  is  the  shop- 
ping instinct  incorporated.  To  spend  money  is  her  only 
sensation.  The  lines  of  worry  are  in  her  face  because 
she  has  bought  all  and  still  craves  to  spend." 

Alix  paused.     "  Go  on,"  said  Collingeford. 

"  There  are  only  a  few  men  in  the  room,  but  almost 
all  of  these  women  have  husbands.  The  husbands  are 
in  two  tenses  —  past  and  future.  There  must  be  a 
present  but  it  is  nebulous.  I  did  n't  know  before  but 
I  know  now  that  in  time  these  women  will  go  back  or  for- 
ward to  their  husbands.  Some  day  they  will  get  dizzy 
and  fall  and  the  shock  will  wake  them  up.  I  used  to  be 
patronizing  to  divorce,  like  all  these,  but  divorce  has 
taken  on  a  new  face  all  of  a  sudden.  I  see  that  it  is 
a  great  antidote  to  its  own  evil.  While  we  laugh  and 
play  with  it,  it  is  herding  us  on  to  a  sane  adjustment. 
We  are  tearing  down  the  fence  of  the  pasture  and  rush- 
ing out  to  scatter  over  fields  that  are  free  —  and  barren. 
By  and  by  we  '11  come  back  tired  and  hungry  and  thirsty 


156  HOME 

and  we  '11  see  that  the  pasture 's  the  thing  —  green  and 
fresh  and  sustaining  —  and  the  fence,  nothing." 

"  You  see,  you  understand,  you  are  prophetic,"  said 
Oollingeford,  smiling. 

"  But  I  do  not  tower  like  your  Bodsky,"  said  Alix  and 
then  bit  her  tongue  at  the  slip. 

A  shadow  seemed  to  fall  on  them.  The  room's  high, 
delicate  paneling  and  the  painted  oval  of  the  ceiling 
seemed  to  hover  over  a  suddenly  darkened  emptiness. 
The  hum  and  chatter  of  the  throng  became  little  and 
far  away.  Collingeford  and  Alix  felt  as  though  they 
sat  alone  and  yet  not  alone.  Collingeford  nodded  as 
though  Alix  had  spoken.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  Bodsky  has 
come  back  to  us.  Don't  regret  it.  I  don't  know  how 
it  is  with  you  but  I  feel  that  we  two  are  alone  with 
him  and  that  it 's  worth  while.  He 's  come  on  us  like 
a  cloud. 

"  But  I  like  clouds,"  he  continued,  "  big  black  clouds. 
If  it  were  not  for  them  you  could  n't  see  the  lightning 
or  hear  the  thunder.  They  make  lightning  and  thunder 
—  the  arm  and  the  voice  of  the  gods.  Bodsky  was  n't 
divine;  he  couldn't  create  and  he  knew  it  and  felt  it. 
But  he  could  echo  the  roar  and  reflect  the  light.  I  re- 
member a  duffer  making  a  careless  remark  about  a 
woman's  travail.  Bodsky  looked  him  over  and  said, 
'  Some  day  you  will  see  and  hear  and  know  and  the 
memory  of  that  remark  will  bring  you  on  to  your  knees. 
But  this  much  I  can  tell  you  now,  young  man.  I  would 
rather  have  been  the  man  who  produced  the  first  wooden 
spoon  than  Alexander  the  Great.  From  a  spoon  to  a 
baby  is  a  long  step  up.  That 's  why  we  have  made  a 


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shrine  for  mothers.  Generally  speaking,  women  are 
despicable.  But  a  mother  has  passed  through  cruci- 
fixion to  transfiguration.'  I  think  it  was  about  the 
longest  speech  he  ever  made.  To  him  that  was  one  of 
the  things  too  big  to  drop  through  the  mesh  of  his  sieve 
of  life  unnoticed. 

"  Bodsky  was  elemental.  He  was  an  element.  He 
could  not  produce  but  he  could  make  fertile  the  lives  of 
lesser  men.  I  was  the  duffer  that  made  the  careless 
remark.  That  was  the  first  time  he  ever  spoke  to  me. 
I  've  sat  at  his  feet  ever  since.  I  did  n't  know  I  was 
doing  it  but  I  can  see  it  now.  And  the  result  is  this: 
Bodsky  could  n't  go  home.  But  I  can  and  I  'm  going 
home  before  I  've  seen  the  whole  world.  Only  —  only 
I  wish  I  could  take  you  with  me." 

"  There,  there,"  said  Alix,  playfully,  but  her  eyes 
were  soft.  "  We  must  go  now  or  you  will  miss  your 
ship." 


AS  Alix  and  Gollingeford  left  the  dining-room  she 
said,  "  They  were  n't  all  butterflies  after  all.  I 
saw  a  man  and  a  woman." 

"  Not  really !  "  said  Collingeford.    -"  Who  ?  " 

"  Alan  Wayne  and  Dora  Tennel." 

At  Alan's  name  Collingeford's  face  lit  up  with  inter- 
est. "  Ten  Percent  Wayne,  eh  ?  Yes,  you  're  right. 
He's  a  man.  And  Dora  Tennel,  ex-Lady  Braeme. 
Yes,  she 's  a  woman  too, —  in  a  way." 

"  Has  she  a  tarnished  reputation  ?  " 

Collingeford  stopped  short  in  his  stride  and  looked 
keenly  at  Alix.  "  My  dear  lady,"  he  said,  "  that  is  a 
question  one  does  not  put  to  a  man.  However,  it 
does  n't  embarrass  me  to  answer  it  in  this  case.  She  has 
not.  What  on  earth  put  it  into  your  head  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Alix.  "Oh,  yes  I  do.  I 
remember.  Some  one  told  me  once  that  Alan  sur- 
rounded himself  with  tarnished  reputations." 

Each  followed  the  train  of  his  own  thoughts  until  they 
reached  the  pier.  Alix  did  not  get  out  of  the  cab.  She 
leaned  from  the  window  and  said  good-by.  Collinge*- 
ford  held  her  hand  and  her  eyes  long,  then  he  turned 
away  and  hurried  into  the  elevator. 

When  Alix  got  home  she  sat  down  and  wrote  a  note 
to  Alan  —  just  a  line  to  tell  him  that  she  was  ready 
and  wished  to  see  him.  He  came  the  following  after- 

158 


HOME  159 

/ 

noon.  At  first  he  was  a  little  awkward,  straining  just 
the  least  too  much  not  to  betray  his  nervousness.  But 
the  sight  of  Alix  put  him  at  his  ease.  Once  it  had  been 
with  a  fine  art  that  she  had  pampered  the  ill-at-ease 
into  well-being  but  as  Alan  crossed  the  room  and  stood 
before  her  he  knew  that  art  had  been  banished  and  that 
a  new  Alix,  simple  and  secure  in  the  unassailable  at- 
mosphere that  guards  true  women,  held  out  her  hand  to 
him  from  beyond  an  invisible  barrier.  She  had  become  a 
true  woman  —  true  in  the  sense  of  honor  —  and  she  was 
tempered  as  steel,  but  soft  with  the  softness  of  mother- 
hood. About  her  there  was  the  peace  of  an  inner  shrine. 
She  drew  him  into  it  unhesitatingly  and  he  suddenly 
felt  unclean  just  as  he  had  felt  unworthy  on  that  other 
day  when  he  had  recoiled  from  Nance's  loving  arms 
around  his  neck. 

"  You  're  not  looking  very  well,  Alan,"  said  Alix 
when  he  was  seated. 

"  No,  I  'm  not  on  the  top  of  the  wave  just  now," 
replied  Alan.  "  Touch  of  river  fever.  It 's  like 
memory  —  a  hard  thing  to  shake." 

"  I  'm  not  trying  to  shake  mine,"  said  Alix  calmly. 
"  My  memories  have  made  me." 

"  No  wonder  you  don't  quarrel  with  them,"  said  Alan 
in  frank  admiration. 

"  Life,"  said  Alix,  "  is  beginning  to  pay  dividends  — 
not  much,  just  a  competence.  Enough  to  live  on." 
She  smiled  faintly. 

"  It  is  well,"  said  Alan,  "  to  be  satisfied  with  sanity 
if  you  can  only  keep  sane.  You  could  and  did.  You 
decided  to  stick  to  the  legitimate  and  you  have  your 


160  HOME 

steady  and  lasting  reward.  The  other  —  pays  in  a 
lump.  It's  easy  to  lose  a  whole  nugget." 

"  Alan,  when  are  you  going  to  come  back  to  the  legiti- 
mate? Don't  you  ever  tire  of  life  as  a  variety  show? 
Wouldn't  you  rather  have  one  real  steady  star  in  life 
than  a  whole  lot  of  tarnished  tinsel  ones  ?  " 

Alan  jumped  to  his  feet,  stuck  his  hands  in  his  coat 
pockets  and  started  walking  up  and  down  the  somber 
room.  They  were  in  the  library.  "  A  steady  star,"  he 
repeated.  "  What  a  find  that  would  be !  I  've  raised 
many  a  star  on  my  horizon,  Alix,  but  the  longer  I  look 
at  'em  the  more  they  twinkle  back.  It 's  easier  to  down 
conscience  than  to  down  blood." 

"  In  the  end,"  said  Alix,  "  a  man  must  down  blood 
or  it  downs  him  —  downs  him  irretrievably.  Blood  un- 
checked is  just  common  beast." 

"Do  you  think  I  don't  know  it?"  flashed  Alan. 
"  Each  day  I  find  an  old  haunt  denied  to  me.  I  am  ill 
at  ease.  My  world  has  left  yours  behind.  There  is  a 
pale.  Behind  it  lies  Red  Hill.  Do  you  know  I  have  n't 
been  to  the  Hill  for  three  years  ?  Behind  it  lies  Nance, 
the  faithfullest,  most  trusting  foster-sister  a  waster  ever 
had.  And  now  you.  You  lie  behind  it  and  toy  with 
my  soul  through  the  bars." 

Alix  sprang  to  her  feet  and  laid  strong,  nervous  hands 
on  Alan's  shoulders.  She  shook  him  and  turned  him  so 
that  he  faced  the  light.  Alan  did  not  laugh.  There 
was  fire  in  Alix's  eyes.  "You  little  thing,"  she  said 
tensely,  "not  to  see  that  the  bars  are  down." 

He  turned  under  her  hands  and  she  let  him  go.  He 
stood  looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  bare  trees. 


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watched  him.  "  Alan,  you  can  come  to  the  Hill  to- 
night. They  —  we  —  are  all  going  to  be  together  here. 
It 's  Clem's  birthday.  If  you  can  feel  the  pale,  that 's 
enough  for  me.  I  want  you  to  be  with  us." 

"  Alix,  believe  me  or  not,  it 's  because  I  feel  the  pale 
that  I  won't  come.  If  there 's  a  ship  sailing  for  the 
ends  of  the  earth  before  night  it  shall  carry  me.  This 
big  city  is  n't  big  enough  to  hold  all  the  Hill  and  leave 
me  room  to  wander  outside." 

"  Then  why  —  why  — " 

"  I  '11  tell  you.  The  last  time  I  saw  J.  Y.,  he  said  to 
me  among  other  things,  '  Yesterday  Clem  was  crying 
because  you  had  not  come  to  the  house.  I  try  to 
think,  Alan,  that  it  is  because  Clem  is  there  that  you 
have  not  come.'  Those  were  his  very  words.  The  rest 
passed  but  that  stuck.  It  stuck  because  it  was  the 
truth  and"  I  had  been  blind  to  it.  What  did  you  say  a 
little  while  ago  ?  Blood  unchecked  is  just  common  beast. 
Well,  there  it  is  in  a  nutshell.  I  bear  the  mark  of  the 
beast.  Do  you  think  I  want  Clem  to  see  it  ?  " 

Alan's  hands  were  locked  behind  him.  He  turned 
from  the  window.  "  Alix,  I  can't  see  Clem  yet.  She 
is  expecting  me.  I  told  her  that  the  better  half  of  me 
would  look  her  up  as  soon  as  I  got  back.  But  what  if 
somebody  that  does  n't  know  my  better  half  at  all  should 
see  me  riding  —  walking  with  Clem  ?  I  can't  risk  that. 
Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  But  oh,  Alan,"  said  Alix.  "  If  you  could  only  see 
Clem  now.  She 's  glorious.  Why  it 's  three  years, — 
three  years  since  you  saw  her.  You  used  to  think  me 
beautiful  — " 


162  HOME 

"  Used !  "  protested  Alan,  casting  a  valuing  glance  at 
Alix's  pale  beauty. 

"  Well,"  conceded  Alix,  "  you  think  me  beautiful. 
Beside  Clem  with  her  heaps  of  brown  hair  and  deep 
blue  eyes,  I  am  nothing.  I  am  worse  —  I  am  a  doll. 
And  she  was  born  with  a  strange  wisdom  and  strength  of 
her  own.  The  world  has  never  reached  her  —  will 
never  reach  her.  She  's  made  her  own  world  and  she  's 
made  it  right.  And  yet  —  the  wisdom  in  her  deep  eyes, 
Alan.  She  knows  —  she  knows  it  all  —  and  you  know 
that  she  knows,  only,  faith  sits  enthroned." 

"  Faith  sits  enthroned,"  repeated  Alan ;  "  that 's  why 
I  can't  come  to-night."  He  looked  around  for  his  hat 
and  stick. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Alix,  "  why  J.  Y.  and  why  Mrs. 
J.  Y.  ?  I  Ve  always  wondered." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Alan.  "  I  Ve  always  wondered 
too,  I  suppose.  But  here  's  the  Judge.  He  can  tell 

you." 

"  Tell  what  ? "  asked  the  Judge  as  he  walked  in  and 
took  Alix'  outstretched  hand. 

"  Why  there 's  no  Mr.  Wayne  and  Mrs.  Wayne  — 
only  J.  Y.'s." 

"And  you  don't  know,  Alan?"  asked  the  Judge. 
"  Well,  I  '11  tell  you.  Mr.  Wayne  and  Mrs.  Wayne  - 
they  were  Alan's  father  and  his  young  wife.  Their 
life  was  a  hot  flame  that  suddenly  smothered  itself  in 
the  clouds  of  its  own  smoke.  The  memory  of  the  clouds 
passed  with  them  but  the  flame  —  the  flame  burns  on  in 
the  hearts  of  all  who  knew  them.  It  will  burn  on. 


HOME  163 

That 's  why  J.  Y.  is  J.  Y.  and  that 's  why  it  will  always 
be  J.  Y.  and  Mrs.  J.  Y.  to  the  Hill." 

Alan  said  good-by  in  a  hurried  low  voice  and  started 
for  the  door  but  the  Judge  called  to  him :  "  Just  a 
moment,  Alan,  I  'm  coming  with  you."  Then  he  turned 
to  Alix.  "  I  just  dropped  in  to  tell  you  I  am  delighted 
to  be  able  to  come  to-night." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Alix.  "  Perhaps  you  could  per- 
suade Alan  to  come  too  if  you  think  — " 

"  If  I  think  what  ? "     The  Judge  eyed  her  steadily. 

"  If  you  think  he  is  ready,"  finished  Alix. 

The  Judge  found  Alan  waiting  for  him  on  the  steps 
as  he  hurried  out.  "  What  are  you  doing  for  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  'm  sailing  for  South  America  if  there  's  a  con- 
nection." 

The  Judge  looked  up  surprised.  "  I  did  n't  know  you 
had  anything  urgent  on."  They  walked  on  in  silence 
for  some  minutes,  then  the  Judge  said,  hesitatingly, 
"  Alan,  you  're  rushed,  of  course,  but  if  you  could  —  if 
you  can  —  do  one  thing  and  put  it  down  to  my  account. 
Just  drop  in  and  see  J.  Y.  for  a  minute.  Somehow  I 
feel  that  you  can't  see  J.  Y.  the  way  he  really  is, —  the 
way  I  can.  That 's  natural,  too,  I  suppose.  But  if  you 
knew  him,  Alan,  the  way  I  do,  you  'd  know  it 's  an  honor 
for  any  man  to  shake  hands  with  J.  Y.  Wayne.  And 
to  have  J.  Y.  Wayne  want  to  shake  hands  with  you  is 
a  thing  that  comes  to  most  men  as  a  reward. 

"  Have  you  ever  figured  it  out  that  there  's  only  one 
man  in  a  million  that  knows  when  to  refuse  to  shake 


164  HOME 

hands  and  has  the  courage  to  back  his  judgment  ?  You 
hear  flippant  people  saying  every  day  that  they  would  n't 
shake  hands  with  such  a  one  but  when  it  comes  to  the 
showdown  their  arms  suddenly  limber.  J.  Y.  is  one  in 
a  million.  He  has  a  rare  thing  —  an  untainted  hand. 
There  is  a  tale  on  'Change  to  the  effect  that  a  firm  was 
saved  from  a  smash  because  J.  Y.  walked  up  to  its  head 
and  shook  hands  with  him  on  the  floor." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Alan,  "  that  J.  Y.  wants  to 
shake  hands  with  me."  He  spoke  almost  questioningly. 
"  You  know,  Judge,  there  have  been  days  when  he 
would  n't." 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  wants  to,  either,  my  boy.  But 
I  do  know  this.  He's  a  busy  man,  but  there 's  never 
a  day  that  he 's  too  rushed  to  think  of  you." 

Alan  stopped  and  held  out  his  hand.  "  I  am  much 
obliged  to  you,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  sorry  I  did  n't  think 
of  it  myself.  I  'm  off  to  his  office  now,  as  soon  as  I  've 
telephoned  Swithson." 

A  few  minutes  later  found  Alan  explaining  to  a  new 
office  boy  that  he  wished  to  speak  to  the  head  of  the 
firm.  The  boy  judged  himself  in  possession  of  a  green 
one  and  grinned.  "  Certainly,"  he  said.  "  You  wish 
to  speak  to  Mr.  Wayne.  Are  you  in  a  hurry  ?  " 

Alan  was  offering  to  start  the  boy  with  his  foot  when 
the  head  clerk,  passing  through  the  hall,  caught  sight 
of  him  and  hurried  up.  "  Mr.  Wayne  is  just  going, 
sir.  Shall  I  stop  him  ? " 

"  Please,"  said  Alan  and  followed  the  clerk.     The  of- 
fice boy  fell  to  stamping  letters  with  unwonted  diligence. 
J.  Y.  received  his  nephew  with  outstretched  hand. 


HOME  165 

His  rugged  face  was  lit  up  with  the  rare  smile  that  came 
to  it  seldom,  for  it  was  the  far-flung  ripple  —  the  visible 
expression  of  a  deep  commotion. 

"  I  just  dropped  in,  sir,"  said  Alan,  "  to  say  good-by. 
I  'm  off  again  to  South  America.  Africa  seems  to  be 
taking  a  year  off." 

"  When  are  you  leaving  ?  "  asked  J.  Y. 

"  This  evening,"  said  Alan.  "  The  boat 's  already 
pulled  out  but  I  '11  catch  her  at  Quarantine.  She  'a 
waiting  for  her  papers." 

They  sat  and  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  and 
then  J.  Y.  arose  and  held  out  his  hand  again.  "  If 
that 's  the  case,"  he  said,  "  I  won't  keep  you.  Good-by 
and  good  luck." 

"  Good-by,  sir,"  said  Alan. 

As  he  reached  the  door  J.  Y.  spoke  again.  "  Alan," 
he  said,  "  I  'm  glad  you  dropped  in." 

"  I  am  too,  sir,"  said  Alan.  As  he  went  out  he  for- 
got to  deliver  a  word  he  had  prepared  for  the  office  boy. 
J.  Y.  had  said  he  was  glad  he  had  dropped  in.  There 
was  nothing  in  the  words  to  brood  over,  but  J.  Y.  could 
make  a  simple  phrase  say  a  world  of  things  and  Alan 
was  thoughtful  —  almost  depressed  —  as  he  hurried  off. 

He  was  just  leaving  the  sedate  old  office  building, 
sandwiched  in  between  modern  towers  of  Babel,  when 
a  cab  drew  up  at  the  curb.  The  door  opened  and  a  girl 
stepped  out.  She  suddenly  stood  still.  Alan's  eyes 
were  drawn  to  her  and  found  hers  fixed  on  him.  He 
drew  a  quivering  breath.  "  But,  oh !  Alan,  if  you  could 
only  see  Clem  now !  "  Alix  had  said  and  had  tried  to 
tell  him  of  the  beauty  of  Clem.  Now  Clem  stood  be- 


166  HOME 

fore  him.  How  weak  were  words !  How  futile  to  try 
to  convey  the  essence  of  Clem's  beauty  in  words!  He 
stepped  towards  her  hesitatingly.  She  saw  his  hesita- 
tion and  a  cloud  came  over  the  light  in  her  face.  Her 
moist  lips  trembled.  Their  hands  met. 

"  Alan !  "  she  said  and  he  answered,  "  Clem !  " 

And  so  they  stood,  his  eyes  fixed  in  hers  that  were 
blue  and  deep.  He  felt  his  soul  sinking,  sinking  into 
those  cooling  pools.  He  did  not  wish  ever  to  speak 
again  —  ever  to  think  again. 

And  then  Clem  laughed.  Her  eyes  wrinkled  up. 
There  was  a  gleam  of  even  teeth.  The  wind  blew  her 
furs  about  her  and  lit  the  color  in  her  cheeks.  "  How 
solemn  we  are  after  three  years !  "  she  cried.  "  Three 
years,  Alan.  Are  n't  you  ashamed  ? " 

Alan  felt  a  sense  of  sudden  insulation  as  though 
she  had  deliberately  cut  the  current  that  had  flowed  so 
strongly  between  them.  He  rebelled  for  once  against 
flippancy.  Unknowingly  he  tried  to  bring  his  —  and 
Bodsky's  —  world  of  naked  things  into  the  city.  He 
failed  to  answer  to  Clem's  mood  because  he  would  not 
believe  in  it.  "  I  am  going  away,"  he  stammered 
weakly  and  waved  at  an  approaching  four-wheeler, 
piled  high  with  traveling  kit  and  convoyed  by  his  hur- 
ried but  never  flurried  servant. 

But  Clem  stuck  to  her  guns.  "  Really  ? "  she  said 
with  a  glance  at  the  loaded  cab  and  with  arching  eye- 
brows. Then  her  smile  burst  again.  "  You  can't  ex- 
pect me  to  be  surprised,  can  you  ?  We  seem  to  have  a 
habit  of  meeting  when  you  are  on  the  point  of  going 


HOME  167 

away.  There.  You  must  be  in  a  hurry.  Good-by," 
and  she  held  out  a  gloved  hand. 

Alan's  spirit  was  ever  ready  for  war  and  this,  he  sud- 
denly perceived,  was  war.  He  braced  himself  and 
smiled  too.  "  Twice  hardly  amounts  to  a  habit,"  he 
drawled.  He  had  never  drawled  to  Clem  before  but 
then  Clem  had  never  before  taken  up  the  social  rapier 
with  him.  "  Besides,"  he  went  on,  "  there  's  a  differ- 
ence. Last  time  you  ran  after  me." 

Clem's  smile  trembled,  steadied  itself  and  then  fought 
bravely  back.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  "  yes."  And  then  her 
eyes  wavered  and  wandered.  She  dropped  his  hand. 
"  Good-by,"  she  said  again,  the  faintest  catch  in  her 
voice,  and  hurried  away  to  seek  <J.  Y. 

Alan  stood  and  watched  her.  What  shoulders  she 
had  and  what  a  swing  to  them.  Slim  of  hip  and  foot 
and  ankle  —  it  was  the  body  of  a  boy  —  a  boy  god.  A 
body,  a  life,  a  soul  of  promise,  of  treasures  garnered 
and  enshrined.  Alan  cast  his  mind  back  over  his  own 
life.  He  felt  a  sinking  within  him.  "  For  a  mess  of 
pottage,"  he  muttered  and  then  his  servant  touched  his 
arm  anxiously  and  held  out  his  watch,  face  up. 
"  You  '11  never  make  it,  Mr.  Wayne." 

Alan  turned  on  him  but  not  angrily.  '"  Perhaps  not, 
Swithson,  and  perhaps  yes.  You  may  go  back  to  the 
flat.  I  '11  get  along  all  right."  And  with  that  he 
hurled  himself  at  the  cab.  "  Double  fare  if  you  make 
the  Battery  in  ten  minutes,"  he  shouted  to  the  driver 
and  then  settled  back  in  the  seat  to  ponder. 


CHAPTEE  XXIV 

AT  last  the  rains  came  to  the  valley  and  Fazenda 
Flores.  Gerry  spent  long  hours  beside  his  sluice- 
gate watching  for  a  rise  in  the  river,  but  it  did  not 
come.  The  torrent  of  rain  was  local  and  he  remem- 
bered that  Lieber  had  told  him  that  the  floods  —  the 
great  floods  —  came  from  hundreds  of  miles  up  the 
river  and  generally  under  a  brazen  sky.  Night,  black 
night,  had  fallen  with  the  rain  and  he  was  just  turning 
to  seek  shelter  from  the  unbroken  downpour  when  a 
voice  raised  in  song  reached  his  ears.  He  waited. 
The  voice  drew  nearer.  In  a  nasal  tone,  which  some- 
how sounded  familiar  though  it  was  unknown  to  him, 
it  was  chanting  a  long  string  of  doggerel  ending  in  an 
unvarying  refrain.  Finally  Gerry  could  make  out  the 
long-drawn  tail-end  of  the  song :  " —  comin'  down  the 
drawr." 

English!  American!  Cowboy  music!  The  im- 
pressions came  in  rapid  succession.  Gerry  strove  to 
pierce  the  darkness.  He  could  hear  the  near-by  splash 
of  careful  mules,  picking  their  way  through  puddles 
with  finicking  little  steps.  He  felt  a  shadow  in  the 
darkness  and  could  just  see  above  it  a  blur  of  yellow. 
Behind  it,  more  shadows.  On  an  impulse  he  did  not 
stop  to  measure,  he  shouted  in  English,  "  Hallo,  there!  " 

The  doggerel  was  choked  off  in  mid-flight.     The  yel- 
168 


HOME  169 

low  blur  came  to  a  sudden  stop  and  the  nasal  voice 
rang  out  in  quick  staccato,  "  Speak  again,  stranger,  and 
speak  quick !  " 

"  It 's  all  right,"  Gerry  laughed  back.  "  Where  are 
you  bound  for  ?  " 

"  I  'm  headed  down  the  drawr  lookin'  for  a  chalk 
line  where  I  c'n  dry  my  feet.  What  do  you  know  ? " 

"  Can  you  see  the  water  in  the  ditch  at  your  right  ?  " 

"  Yasser,  I  can.     I  c'n  see  you,  too." 

"  Well,"  shouted  back  Gerry,  "  your  eyes  beat  mine. 
Follow  the  ditch  until  you  come  to  a  bridge.  I  '11  meet 
you  there." 

Gerry  found  the  little  cavalcade  waiting  for  him,  six 
pack-mules,  a  native  driver  and,  towering  above  them, 
a  great  lanky  figure  in  a  yellow  oil-skin  slicker  topped 
by  a  broad-brimmed  Stetson.  Gerry  looked  over  the 
outfit  as  carefully  as  the  darkness  would  allow  and  then 
said  tentatively,  "  There  's  a  house  down  there  in  the 
valley." 

"  Is  the'  ? "  drawled  the  stranger  spitting  deliber- 
ately into  the  ditch.  "  Well,"  he  volunteered  after  a 
further  pause,  "  my  name  's  Jake  Kemp.  The  rest  of 
this  outfit  is  six  mules  packin'  orchids  and  the  greaser 
packin'  the  mules." 

"  That 's  all  right,"  said  Gerry,  "  I  guess  we  can  put 
you  up." 

He  led  the  way  and  the  pack-train  splashed  along 
after  him.  The  mules  were  soon  relieved  of  their  bur- 
dens and  turned  into  the  pasture.  Bonifacio  took  the 
native  muleteer  away  to  his  quarters  and  Gerry  and 
the  stranger  passed  through  the  house  to  the  kitchen. 


170  HOME 

A  patriarchal  hospitality  came  naturally  to  the  in- 
mates of  Fazenda  Flores.  It  was  a  tradition  not  only 
on  that  plantation  but  throughout  a  vast  hinterland, 
where  life  was  rude  and  death  sudden,  to  be  gentle  to 
the  stranger,  to  feed  him  and  his  beast  and  to  speed 
him  on  in  the  early  morning.  There  was  but  one  rule 
to  the  stranger:  He  must  keep  his  eyes  to  the  front. 
Jake  Kemp  had  evidently  learned  the  brief  code.  He 
ate  ravenously,  poured  down  coffee  with  the  recklessness 
of  a  man  that  draws  on  a  limitless  power  to  sleep, 
and  made  his  few  remarks  to  Gerry  and  to  Gerry 
alone. 

Gerry  was  feeling  a  strange  elation  that  he  strove 
in  vain  to  account  for.  This  was  an  American  but  be- 
yond that  they  had  nothing  in  common.  New  York 
and  Texas  are  connected  only  by  fiction.  Perhaps  it 
was  just  curiosity.  Curiosity  invaded  him.  What  was 
a  Texas  cowboy  doing  on  the  road  past  Fazenda  Flores 
with  a  mule  train  of  orchids?  As  an  opener  he  de- 
clared himself.  "  My  name  's  Gerry  Lansing,"  he  said. 
"  I  've  settled  down  here." 

"  So  ? "  said  Kemp,  as  he  drew  from  his  vest  pockets 
the  makings  of  a  cigarette.  Gerry  had  seen  the  yellow 
papers  and  the  little  bags  of  flaked  tobacco.  They 
struck  convincingly  the  note  of  the  West.  Kemp  him- 
self was  gotten  up  in  the  same  key*  Stetson  hat,  shirt 
sleeves,  unbuttoned  vest,  collarless  shirt,  high-heeled 
boots  and  the  yellow  slicker  tossed  on  the  floor,  all  were 
in  strict  keeping  with  type.  "  Eeckon  you  're  f'm  the 
States,"  drawled  Kemp  as  he  accomplished  the  cigar- 
ette. 


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"  Yes,"  said  Gerry  and  added,  with  an  idea  to  estab- 
lishing a  link,  "  like  you." 

"  Naw,"  said  Kemp,  "  I  ain't  f  m  the  States." 

Gerry  looked  incredulous.  "  Are  n't  you  an  Amer- 
ican ? " 

"  Sure  am,"  replied  Kemp,  unperturbed.  "  But  I  'm 
fm  Texas  —  leastways  I  was  f 'm  Texas.  Our  folks 
wagoned  over  to  New  Mexico  when  I  was  a  yearling." 

Gerry  had  been  West  more  than  once.  He  slowly 
recollected  that  Easterners  came  into  Texas  and  the 
Territories  "  from  the  States "  and  were  considered 
but  once  removed  from  foreigners. 

"  Reckon  you  're  f'm  Noo  Yawk,"  was  Kemp's  next 
deliberate  contribution  to  the  conversation. 

"  You  're  right,"  said  Gerry.  "  How  did  you  guess 
it?" 

"  I  b'en  thar,"  said  Kemp. 

With  that,  talk  lagged.  Gerry  instinctively  avoided 
the  question  direct  and  Kemp  vouchsafed  nothing  more. 
Not  till  Gerry  came  upon  him  hitching  up  his  loads 
early  next  morning  did  he  speak  again  and  then  he  said 
with  a  glint  in  his  eye  that  was  almost  a  smile,  "  I 
guess  them 's  the  first  orchids  that  ever  traveled  to 
ma'ket  under  a  diamond  hitch." 

Here  was  an  opening  but  it  came  too  late.  Gerry 
did  not  try  to  follow  it  up.  Once  more  in  the  saddle 
Kemp  seemed  to  acquire  a  sudden  new  ease  of  body 
and  mind.  He  hung  by  one  knee  and  a  stirrup  and 
leaned  over  toward  Gerry.  "  Stranger,"  he  said,  "  I  'm 
much  obliged  to  ye.  It 's  a  long  way  f'm  the  Alamo  to 
ISToo  Yawk,  but  the  hull  country  's  under  one  fence." 


172  HOME 

He  waved  his  hand  and  was  gone  after  his  pack-train, 
lifting  his  mule  with  his  goose-necked  spurs  into  a  pro- 
testing canter.  Gerry  followed  him  with  his  eyes.  He 
felt  a  sense  of  loss  and  failure.  Kemp  had  been  like 
a  breath  of  air  laden  with  some  long-forgotten  scent  that 
defies  memory  to  give  it  a  name. 

For  days  Gerry's  mind  kept  going  back  to  his  lodger 
for  a  night.  This  stranger  had  broken  the  quiet  flow 
of  life.  He  had  gone,  but  the  commotion  he  had  caused 
lingered  on.  Two  weeks  after  his  passing,  as  evening 
was  settling  on  Fazenda  Flores,  the  echo  of  a  mule's 
mincing  steps  on  the  bridge  made  Gerry  look  up  from 
his  work.  Kemp  was  riding  towards  him.  It  was  as 
though  he  came  in  answer  to  Gerry's  constant  thoughts. 
Gerry  hurried  forward  to  meet  him. 

"  Howdy,"  said  Kemp  and  paused  on  that  to  measure 
his  welcome.  He  was  satisfied  and  urged  his  tired  mule 
on  towards  the  house.  Gerry  walked  beside  him  and 
learned  that  the  shipment  of  orchids  had  just  caught 
the  steamer  at  the  coast.  Kemp  unsaddled  his  mule 
and  tossed  the  harness  and  slicker  upon  the  veranda. 
Gerry  opened  the  gap  into  the  pasture  and  the  mule 
nosed  its  cautious  way  through  to  water  and  the  grass. 
As  Gerry  was  closing  the  gap  Kemp  came  up  and 
stood  beside  him.  He  cast  a  knowing  eye  over  the 
fat  stock.  "  You  done  a  good  job  for  Lieber,"  he  re- 
marked. 

Gerry  nodded  a  little  sadly.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  the 
contract's  filled.  Lieber 's  sending  for  the  stock  day 
after  to-morrow." 

As  they  sat  on  the  veranda  that  night  smoking  end- 


HOME  173 

less  cigarettes,  Kemp  turned  to  his  host.  "  D  'ye  mind 
if  I  stay  over  a  day  with  you  ?  Truth  is,  I  want  to 
he'p  drive  that  stock  up  to  Lieber's.  I  want  to  he'p 
whistle  a  bunch  o'  steers  along  once  more  and  smell 
the  dust  an'  the  leakin'  udders,  an'  I  should  n't  wonder 
if  I  let  out  a  yell  or  so,  corralin'  'em  at  the  other  end." 

Gerry  nodded  understandingly.  "  Why  did  you 
leave  it  ? "  he  ventured  and  then  regretted  and  mur- 
mured, "  Never  mind." 

But  Kemp  was  not  offended.  "  Naw,"  he  said,  "  I 
hain't  killed  my  man  —  not  lately  —  nor  anything 
like  that.  I  left  it,"  he  went  on  reminiscently,  "  be- 
cause I  could  n't  he'p  it.  I  got  to  dreamin'  nights  of 
pu'ple  cities." 

"  Purple  what  ?  "  exclaimed  Gerry. 

Kemp  took  a  cigarette  from  his  mouth  and  almost 
smiled.  "  Never  did  hear  of  The  Pu'ple  City,  I 
reckon  ? " 

Gerry  shook  his  head.  Kemp  drew  a  well-worn  wal- 
let from  the  capacious  inner  pocket  of  his  vest  and  took 
out  a  ragged  clipping.  One  could  read  in  the  glaring 
moonlight  and  Gerry  glanced  through  the  printed  lines. 
Then  he  read  them  through  again. 

THE  PUEPLE  CITY. 

As  I  sat  munching  mangoes, 

On  the  purple  city's  walls, 
I  heard  the  catfish  calling, 

To  the  crawfish  in  the  crawls. 
I  saw  the  paper  sunbeams, 

Sprouting  from  the  painted  sun; 
I  saw  the  sun  was  sullen, 

For  the  day  had  but  begun. 


174  HOME 

Of  dusty  desert  sky-road, 

Ten  thousand  miles  and  more, 
Stretched  out  before  the  morning, 

And  the  sun  sat  in  the  door. 
He  sweated  seas  of  sunshine, 

As  he  started  up  the  sky, 
And  he  drowned  the  purple  city, 

In  a  tear-drop  from  his  eye. 

No  more  shall  purple  pansies 

Look  up  at  purple  pinks, 
Nor  purple  roses  rival, 

The  cheeks  of  purple  minx. 
Alas!   for  purple  city, 

And  its  purple-peopled  halls! 
Alas!  for  me  and  mangoes, 

On  the  purple  city's  walls! 

Gerry  looked  upon  his  guest  with  new  wonder  as  he 
handed  back  the  clipping.  Kemp  put  it  away  care- 
fully, rolled  a  fresh  cigarette,  and  blew  a  thick  puff 
of  smoke  out  into  the  moonlight.  "  Can't  say  it 's 
po'try  and  I  can't  say  it  ain't.  All  I  know  is  it  roped 
me.  I  know  that  writer  feller  never  munched  no 
mangoes,  'cause  mangoes  don't  munch.  I  know  he  never 
sat  on  no  wall  an'  heerd  catfish  callin'  cause  catfish 
don't  call.  But  he  seen  it  all,  stranger,  jest  the  way  he 
writ  it  down  an'  I  b'en  dreamin'  pu'ple  cities  ever  sence 
I  read  his  screed." 

"  Did  you  start  right  out  to  look  for  them  ? "  asked 
Gerry  gravely. 

"  Naw,"  said  Kemp,  "  I  did  n't  have  nothin'  to  go 
on.  But  one  day  a  drummer  feller  thet  I  was  stagin' 
across  the  White  Mountains  give  me  A  plant  magazine, 
and  it  had  an  article  on  commercial  orchids  with  pic- 


HOME  175 

tures  in  colors.  They  was  mostly  kinder  pu'plish  an' 
I  reckon  it  was  that  what  got  me  started.  It  was  the 
foreman  pointin'  out  my  mount  to  me  an'  I  did  n't  lose 
no  time.  I  drapped  my  rope  on  him  an'  I  've  been 
ridin'  him  ever  sence." 

"  Found  any  purple  cities  ?  " 

"  Not  rightly.  I  seen  'em  —  more'n  once.  But 
I  guess  pu'ple  cities  is  always  yon  side  the  mountain. 
You  can't  jest  ride  up  an'  put  your  brand  on  'em. 
They  're  born  mavericks  and  they  die  mavericks.  An' 
I  say,  good  luck  to  'em."  Kemp  rose,  tossed  away  his 
cigarette  end  and  stood  leaning  with  crooked  elbow  and 
knee  against  a  veranda  pillar.  His  keen  aquiline  fea- 
tures and  deep-set  eyes  were  lit  up  by  the  moonlight 
and  seemed  scarcely  to  belong  to  his  great,  loose-jointed 
frame.  He  was  loose- jointed  but  like  a  flail  —  strong 
and  tough.  "  There 's  one  thing  about  the  pu'ple 
cities,"  he  added,  "the  daylight  always  beats  you  to 
'em  jest  like  in  the  po'm."  He  turned  and  went  off 
to  bed. 

Gerry  sat  on  in  the  moonlight  seized  by  a  strange 
sadness  —  the  sadness  the  spirit  feels  under  the  troubled 
hovering  of  the  unattainable  and  the  mirage.  Life  had 
queer  turns.  Why  should  a  cowboy  start  out  to  look 
for  purple  cities  ?  It  was  grotesque  on  the  face  of  it 
but,  beneath  the  face  of  it,  it  was  not  grotesque. 

Margarita  stole  out  to  seat  herself  beside  him.  She 
slipped  her  hand  into  his.  She  was  worried.  She  was 
always  worried  when  Gerry's  thoughts  were  far  away. 
"  The  Man,"  she  said,  for  thus  she  had  christened  her 
baby  boy  from  the  day  of  his  birth,  "  the  Man  sleeps. 


176  HOME 

He  cried  for  thee  and  them  didst  not  come.  So  he 
slept,  for  he  is  a  man." 

Gerry's  thoughts  came  back  to  his  little  kingdom. 
He  sighed  and  then  he  smiled  a  smile  of  content.  "  It 
is  late  then,  my  flower  ?  "  He  put  his  arm  around  her. 
"  Let  us  go  to  bed,  for  to-morrow  there  is  work." 

"  To-morrow  there  is  always  work,"  said  Margarita. 
"  I  am  not  afraid  of  work,  Geree.  The  end  of  work 
never  comes.  It  is  the  things  that  end  that  make  me 
afraid."  She,  too,  had  felt  the  fluttering  wings  of  the 
unattainable.  Unknowingly  she  stood  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  stranger's  purple  city's  walls. 

The  next  day  Kemp  tried  honestly  to  help  Gerry  with 
the  tilling  of  the  soil  but  the  effort  was  still-born. 
Kemp  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  walk  and  his  high- 
heeled  boots  fell  foul  of  every  hummock.  "  Look'y 
here,  Mr.  Lansing,"  he  said  after  half  an  hour's  toil, 
"  ain't  there  no  colts  —  bad  uns  —  you  want  backed 
nor  calves  to  brand  ?  This  here'  diggin'  wakes  up  the 
rheumatiz  in  my  j'ints." 

"  What  about  milking  the  cows  ?  "  suggested  Gerry. 

Kemp  actually  blushed.  He  cast  a  quick  glance  at 
Gerry  to  see  if  this  was  some  weak  witticism  to  be 
promptly  resented  but  was  reassured  by  the  surprise 
in  Gerry's  face.  "  Stranger,"  he  said,  "  I  ain't 
never  touched  no  cow  with  my  hands.  If  you  want 
I  should  rope  'em  an'  hog-tie  'em,  I  'm  your  man 
but  some  missus  will  have  to  take  the  milk  away  f'm 
'em." 

Gerry  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  but  his  laugh 
was  stopped  short  by  the  glint  in  Kemp's  eye.  "  That 's 


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all  right,  Kemp,"  he  said.  "  The  missus  is  milking 
them,  right  now.  What 's  the  matter  with  you  just 
taking  a  holiday?  You've  done  a  hard  ride  and  it 
won't  hurt  you  to  have  a  loaf." 

Kemp  wandered  off  to  the  house  with  solemn  face. 
When  Gerry  came  in  to  the  midday  meal,  he  found 
him  with  a  saddle  propped  on  the  arm  of  a  bench  giving 
the  delighted  swaddled  heir  to  Fazenda  Mores  his  first 
lesson  in  equitation. 

That  night  they  sat  again  on  the  veranda  steps  but 
Kemp  was  not  talkative.  He  whittled  a  stick  until 
it  disappeared  in  a  final  curly  shaving  and  then  im- 
mediately started  on  a  fresh  one. 

"  Known  Lieber  long  ?  "  asked  Gerry  at  last. 

"  Goin'  on  two  years,"  replied  Kemp. 

"  Does  he  live  off  his  stock  ?  " 

Kemp  looked  up.  "  Have  n't  you  ever  b'en  up  to 
Lieber's?" 

"  No,"  said  Gerry,  "  it 's  two  years  since  I  came 
here  and  I  've  never  been  off  the  place.  Lieber 's  been 
down  here  a  couple  of  times." 

Kemp  grunted  but  asked  no  further  question. 
"  Lieber,"  he  said,  "  c'tainly  don't  live  offen  his  stock 
-  he  plays  with  it.  Lieber  is  the  goatskin  king.  Ships 
'em  by  the  thousand  bales.  If  you  or  any  other  man  in 
these  parts  was  to  sell  a  goatskin  away  f'm  Lieber,  you  'd 
be  boycotted.  Lieber  on  this  range  is  God  —  you  're 
fer  him  or  you  're  ag'in'  him  an'  there  ain't  be'n  any 
one  ag'in'  him  for  some  spell  now." 

"  Oh,"  said  Gerry. 

"  As  fer  knowin'  him,"  continued  Kemp,  "  everybody 


178  HOME 

on  this  round-up  knows  Lieber  but  there  ain't  anybody 
knows  why  he  is.  Lieber  holds  questions  and  small- 
pox about  alike.  He  ain't  thar  when  they  happen." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

LIEBER,  accompanied  by  two  herders,  came  early 
for  his  stock.  He  greeted  Kemp  warmly. 
"  Going  my  way  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  b'en  loafin'  around  here  with  that  in  mind," 
drawled  Kemp.  "  I  '11  take  a  hand  if  you  '11  allow  me 
a  mount." 

"  You  can  take  your  pick,"  said  Lieber,  "  that  is, 
after  Mr.  Lansing  has  had  his." 

The  three  of  them  walked  into  the  pasture.  Lieber 
looked  at  the  stock  with  kindling  eyes.  He  turned  to 
Gerry  and  held  out  his  hand.  "  Shake,"  he  said,  and 
Gerry  did.  "  What  do  you  say  to  the  first  five  of  the 
horses  out  and  the  last  ten  of  the  cattle  for  your  share  ?  " 

Gerry  flushed.  "  That 's  more  than  fair,"  he  said. 
"  You  know  the  best  of  the  horses  will  lead  the  bunch 
and  the  fattest  of  the  cattle  will  lag  behind.  You  see, 
they  're  all  strong  now." 

"  That 's  just  it,"  said  Lieber.  "  They  're  all  strong 
now  and  if  you  had  n't  taken  'em  over  they  'd  have  been 
mostly  dead  by  now.  I  'm  satisfied  —  more  than  sat- 
isfied —  and  if  you  are  too,  why  it 's  all  right." 

The  herders  were  sent  to  the  upper  gap  to  head  in 
the  first  five  out.  Kemp,  who  had  seized  one  of  the 
saddled  horses  and  was  already  mounted,  cut  horses 
out  from  cattle  and  with  a  whoop  carried  them  towards 

179 


180  'HOME 

the  lower  gap.  A  beautiful  iron-gray  gelding  broke 
away  from  the  bunch  and  trotted  up  to  Gerry  to  nose 
at  his  pockets.  Five  horses  sprang  through  the  gap  and 
Lieber  headed  back  the  rest.  He  turned  to  Gerry  with 
a  smile  but  the  light  had  gone  out  of  Gerry's  face.  He 
stood,  with  head  hanging,  his  arm  across  the  arched 
neck  of  the  iron-gray.  Lieber  strode  over  to  him,  his 
silver  spurs  jingling.  He  laid  a  big  hand  on  Gerry's 
shoulder.  The  gelding  sprang  back  with  a  snort. 
"That's  all  right,  boy,"  said  Lieber.  "I  wouldn't 
give  the  roan  out  yonder  for  two  of  him.  Will  you 
trade  even  ? " 

"  You  can  have  the  lot  for  this  one,"  said  Gerry  with 
a  laugh. 

"  No,"  said  Lieber  gravely,  "  just  the  roan." 

Kemp  had  gone  off  to  round  up  his  mule.  He  came 
up  from  the  river  driving  it  before  him.  At  every 
jump  he  caught  the  mule  a  flick  with  his  rope  and  the 
mule  kicked  and  squealed  but  came  on  with  long,  stiff- 
legged  strides.  "  Hi-yi !  "  yelled  Kemp  and  snatched 
off  his  hat  to  beat  his  mount  while  he  kept  the  rope- 
end  flickering  over  the  mule. 

Gerry  and  Lieber  laughed.  Kemp  was  like  a  mummy 
come  to  sudden  life.  "  Do  you  know  what  ? "  said 
Gerry,  "  I  think  I  '11  come  along  with  you."  He  led 
the  iron-gray  out  by  his  forelock  and  old  Bonifacio 
hurried  to  help  bridle  and  saddle  him.  Lieber  mounted 
his  stallion  and  turned  the  horses  as  they  came  out. 
Kemp  suddenly  sobered  down  to  business.  When 
Lieber  had  thrown  back  the  last  ten  of  the  cattle,  Kemp 
came  out  and  closed  the  gap  behind  him. 


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"  I  think  I  '11  go  ahead  with  the  horses,"  said  Lieber. 

"  You  go  and  take  yo'  men  with  you,"  said  Kemp. 
"  I  could  drive  this  fat  bunch  from  here  to  Kansas  with 
nary  a  hand  to  spell  me." 

"  Well,  you  '11  have  Mr.  Lansing  to  help  you,"  said 
Lieber  and  rode  on  to  where  his  men  were  holding  the 
horses  in  a  milling,  kicking  mass.  They  passed  over 
the  bridge  and  away  in  a  moving  pillar  of  dust,  for  the 
desert  had  swallowed  the  first  rains  and  was  already  cry- 
ing for  more.  The  cattle  strung  out  and  followed 
slowly  in  their  trail.  With  whistle  and  yell  Kemp 
urged  on  the  laggards  until  he  had  the  whole  string  well 
in  hand.  He  kept  them  all  traveling,  slowly  but 
steadily,  and  with  never  a  word  to  Gerry.  Toward 
evening  his  eye  caught  the  glint  of  the  sun  on  the  white 
pillars  and  walls  of  a  distant  house*  The  house  was 
in  the  midst  of  the  desert.  Beyond  it  loomed  a  single 
big  joa  tree.  "  Lieber's,"  said  Kemp  and  Gerry 
nodded. 

Gerry  had  expected  a  surprise  of  some  sort  when 
at  last  he  arrived  at  Lieber's  but  the  things  he  saw 
there,  stranger  than  anything  he  could  have  imagined, 
left  him  calm  and  unmoved  as  though  some  prescience 
had  prepared  him.  The  house  was  built  on  the  usual 
solid  lines  of  plantation  headquarters.  Great,  rough- 
hewn  beams ;  towering  rafters,  built  to  carry  the  heavy 
tiles  and  to  bear  their  burden  for  generations ;  unceiled, 
vast  rooms  with  calcimined  walls;  all  these  were  not 
outside  Gerry's  experience  in  the  new  land.  The 
strangeness  came  with  the  rugs  and  the  linen,  the  etch- 
ings and  the  furniture,  and  last  and  most  significant, 


182  HOME 

the  shelves  and  shelves  of  books  and  the  tables  piled 
with  magazines  in  three  languages.  '  Everything  bore 
the  stamp  of  quality,  everything  had  the  distinction  of 
a  choice. 

Gerry  did  not  let  his  curiosity  carry  him  beyond  a 
rapid  glance  around  the  great  living-room  where  they 
found  Lieber,  bathed  and  freshly  dressed,  superintend- 
ing the  making  of  ice  in  the  latest  ingenious  contrivance 
for  the  pampering  of  the  pioneer.  The  three  men 
gathered  about  the  curious  machine  and  watched  its 
jerky  sway  and  swash.  At  one  end  was  a  great  demi- 
john of  acid,  at  the  other  a  vacuum  carafe,  half  filled 
with  water.  Their  throats  were  parched  and  as  the 
ice  began  to  form  and  solidify  they  maintained  a 
silence  that  was  almost  ceremonial. 

Ice  to  them  was  a  sort  of  national  emblem.  It 
carried  them  back.  Varied  memories  accompanied  each 
stage  of  its  formation  —  memories  of  frost  and  the  blaz- 
ing woods,  of  cool  long  drinks  and  half-forgotten  revel- 
ries. Lieber  broke  the  silence,  offering  a  choice  of  wine 
or  whisky,  but  Gerry  shook  his  head  at  both  and  Kemp, 
after  a  lingering  look  at  the  squat  bottle,  followed  suit. 
Lieber  half  filled  three  glasses  with  the  ice  and  added 
filtered  water.  They  drank  and  filled  again.  Ice 
water  in  the  desert !  It  made  them  smile  on  each  other 
as  though  they  had  found  some  undiscovered  elixir. 
"  Ice  water  in  the  desert,"  thought  Gerry  and  the  phrase 
seemed  to  him  more  than  words  —  it  seemed  to  paint 
Lieber  dimly,  but  as  the  mind  saw  him. 

The  veranda  at  Lieber's  was  like  that  of  Fazenda 
Elores  only  much  bigger.  It  looked  out  upon  a  wide 


HOME  183 

stretch  of  desert  but  away  at  the  rim  of  the  desert  one 
could  feel  the  river.  The  roar  of  the  falls  mumbled 
in  the  ear.  It  came  from  so  far  away  that  one  had 
to  strain  one's  ears  to  actually  define  it.  After  supper 
they  gathered  on  the  veranda.  They  sat  in  rude,  raw- 
hide chairs  which  were  comfortably  strong  and  tilted 
them  back  to  the  national  angle.  Lieber  and  Gerry 
smoked  corn-husk  cigarettes  but  Kemp  stuck  to  his  yel- 
low papers.  Gerry  did  not  want  to  talk.  He  sat  where 
he  could  watch  the  strange  pair  whose  companion  he 
was  for  a  night.  Into  the  souls  of  Lieber  and  Kemp 
the  long  silences  of  solitude  had  entered  and  become  at 
home.  They  were  patient  of  silence.  Speech  had  its 
restricted  uses.  They  still  had  their  hats  on.  Lieber's 
was  pushed  back,  Kemp's  was  drawn  forward.  Kemp 
was  whittling.  Kemp's  words  of  farewell  came  back 
to  Gerry,  "  It 's  a  long  trail  from  the  Alamo  to  New 
York  but  the  whole  country 's  under  one  fence." 
Texan,  Pennsylvania  Dutchman  and  New  Yorker  might 
be  social  poles  but  to-night  they  seemed  strangely  near 
to  each  other. 

Lieber  stopped  plying  a  toothpick  and  broke  the  si- 
lence. "  Did  you  find  this  tenderfoot  any  help  to  you, 
Kemp  ? " 

Gerry  had  noticed  from  the  first  a  certain  hesitancy 
in  Lieber's  speech  and  a  slight  accent  that  was  not  so 
much  foreign  as  colloquial.  Lieber's  talk  was  the  talk 
of  a  man  self-educated  in  culture.  The  books  back 
there  in  the  big  living-room  explained  it.  He  had 
learned  to  talk  from  books. 

Kemp  closed  up  his  knife  deliberately,   stuck   his 


184  HOME" 

hands  in  his  pockets  and  stretched  out  his  legs.  His 
chair  was  tilted  back  in  defiance  of  the  laws  of  gravita- 
tion. "  Consider'ble  time  ago  now  I  used  ter  sling  the 
name  of  tende'foot  around  pretty  free,"  he  remarked  in 
his  low  drawl,  "  but  a  little  shrimp  f 'm  the  States,  beg- 
gin'  your  pa' don,  Mr.  Lansing,  come  out  to  Coaltown 
some  years  back  and  taught  me  'nd  some  others  that 
the 's  some  tende'foots  born  west  of  the  Mississip'." 

Kemp  paused  to  give  comment  a  chance  to  shut  him 
up  but  Lieber  and  Gerry  sat  like  relics  of  a  stone  age. 
Kemp  went  on.  "  This  young  feller  was  a  lunger  'nd 
thin  so  you  c'ld  look  through  him  and  even  in  health  he 
c'ldn't  a  b'en  bigger  than  a  minute.  He  was  so  in- 
signif'c'nt  that  nobody  took  notice  on  him,  even  to  frame 
up  a  badger  fight.  He  jest  natu'ally  was  n't  wo'th  the 
trouble.  The'  was  only  one  thing  he  c'ld  do.  He  c'ld 
ride  and  Sam  Burler  said  he  c'ld  n't  rightly  do  that. 
Sam  explained  that  the  bosses  thought  he  was  only  a 
fly  and  never  done  no  more'n  whisk  the'  tails  to  get 
him  off. 

"  Well,  one  afternoon  the'  was  ten  of  us  sittin'  on 
the  gallery  of  The  Lone  Star,  some  waitin'  fo'  some- 
body to  set  'em  up  and  some  fo'  the  poker  game  to  sta't, 
when  along  comes  this  here  shrimp  on  Crossbreed,  the 
pride  qua'terbred  race-hoss  of  the  hull  range..  The' 
was  n't  man  ner  woman  in  the  township  that  would  n't 
a-backed  Crossbreed  to  beat  the  sun  to  daylight  and 
Crossbreed  knowed  his  dooty  —  he  brought  the  money 
back  every  time.  Well,  's  I  say,  along  comes  the  Shrimp 
a-ridin'  in  f  m  the  Gap,  lookin'  kin'  o'  white  around 
the  gills.  We'd  seen  the  hoss  whu'l  with  him  some 


HOME  185 

ways  down  the  road  'nd  he  'd  only  saved  himse'f  by  the 
ho'n,  'nd  pullin'  leather  gene'ally. 

"  *  Well,  young  feller,'  says  Sam  Burler,  '  'ol'  Cross- 
breed 's  some  playful  to-day.  You  b'en  holdin'  him  in 
consider'ble  I  s'pose  'nd  he 's  gettin'  onpatient.' 

"  '  Holdin'  him  in ! '  says  the  Shrimp.  '  He  don't 
need  no  holdin'  in,  'nd  the  only  thing  he's  ever  onpa- 
tient about  is  his  feed ! ' 

"  At  them  words  we  all  rared  up.  All  on  us  knowed 
that  when  Crossbreed  was  a  bit  playful  he  c'ld  side- 
step over  a  housex  absent-minded  like.  Sam  Burler 
looked  the  Shrimp  over  kind  o'  evil  'nd  says,  '  I  s'pose 
you  seen  lots  o'  hosses  that  c'ld  beat  him.' 

"  '  Yes,'  says  the  Shrimp,  ( I  have  'nd  what 's  more  I 
got  twenty  dollars  in  my  pocket  that  says  that  with  two 
hund'ed  ya'ds  sta't  I  c'n  beat  him  to  the  Gap  on  my  ol' 
cayuse.' 

"  Well,  strangers,  there  ain't  no  tende'foot  anywheres 
too  insignif  Vnt  to  rob.  We  all  dug  out  money  or  bor- 
rowed it  and  sure  enough  the  Shrimp  he  took  us  fo'  two 
dollars  each.  They  picked  on  me  to  ride  Crossbreed. 
The'  was  the  usual  conditions  —  bareback  and  stockin' 
feet  'nd  a  quirt  but  no  spurs. 

"Well,  the'  ain't  much  mo'  to  tell.  Sam  Burler 
paced  off  the  Shrimp's  sta't  and  placed  him  'nd  then 
Shorty  Doolittle  let  off  a  shotgun  and  we  was  away. 
Ol'  Crossbreed  was  sure  hungry.  He  chawed  up  that 
road  like  it  was  carrots  in  spring  and  befo'  the  Shrimp 
'nd  his  sleepy  cayuse  was  half  way  to  the  Gap  we  passed 
'em  an'  then  somethin'  happened  so  terr'ble  sudden  that 
I  'm  wonderin'  about  it  yet.  All  I  know  is  that  one 


186  HOME 

minute  I  was  facin'  the  same  way  as  Crossbreed  an'  the 
nex'  I  was  in  the  air  facin'  his  tail.  I  landed  in  the 
ditch  about  the  time  he  got  back  to  the  boys  that  was  too 
ho'ified  to  stop  him  an'  when  I  looked  up  I  seen  the 
Shrimp  beatin'  his  cayuse  past  me.  An'  jest  then  my 
eyes  an'  nose  opened.  I  made  out  to  discover  the  ca'cass 
of  Sam  Burler's  ol'  gray  that  me  an'  Sam  had  dragged 
into  that  ditch  three  days  befo'.  I  don't  have  to  tell 
you  that  no  boss  with  blood  in  him  will  pass  a  ca'cass. 

"  It  took  the  Shrimp  conside'able  time  to  get  even 
his  old  cayuse  past  it,  an'  it  took  him  some  longer  to 
ride  to  the  Gap  an'  back  than  it  did  me  to  get  to  The 
Lone  Star  'nd  I  was  walkin'  slow  with  some  limp. 
When  he  finally  did  get  back  he  was  lookin'  jest  a  shade 
meeker'n  his  old  cayuse,  an'  he  got  a  solemn  welcome. 
Sam  Burler  ma'ched  in  behind  the  bar  an'  we  followed 
him.  He  handed  over  fo'ty  dollars  to  the  Shrimp  an' 
he  says,  says  Sam,  '  Gent'men,  I  reckon  the  drinks  is 
on  all  on  us  but  the  house  sets  'em  up.'  An'  that 
Shrimp  says  he  was  n't  drinkin'  but  he  'd  have  a  two- 
bits  segar  if  Sam  did  n't  mind.  The  's  tende'foots  'nd 
tende'foots." 

There  was  a  broad  grin  on  Gerry's  face  when  Kemp's 
low  monotone  faded  out  altogether  and  a  smile  in  Lie- 
ber's  blue  eyes  but  neither  said  a  word.  From  the  cor- 
ral came  the  grunts  and  sighs  of  cattle  bedding  down. 
Horses  stamped  in  the  stables.  Over  the  great  ware- 
houses where  Lieber  stored  and  sorted  his  goatskins  the 
moon  crept  into  view.  From  the  men's  quarters  came 
the  throb  of  a  guitar  accompanying  a  wailing,  plaintive 


HOME  187 

voice.  There  was  the  smell  of  living  things  in  the  air. 
Through  it  all  and  so  interwoven  with  life  that  its 
solemn  undernote  was  forgotten,  sounded  the  distant, 
incessant  boom  of  the  falls. 


CHAPTEE  XXVI 

THE  next  morning  Gerry  was  up  early,  nervous 
after  his  first  night's  absence  from  Fazenda 
Elores.  Kemp  watched  him  saddle  his  horse.  "  That 
ain't  one  of  the  five,"  he  remarked. 

"  No,"  said  Gerry.  "  I  traded  the  roan  for  the  iron- 
gray.  Do  you  think  I  was  done  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  sayin',"  said  Kemp  cautiously.  "  I  don't 
want  you  should  think  I  was  teachin'  you,  Mr.  Lansing, 
but  that  hoss  ain't  no  iron-gray.  There  ain't  no  such 
color  for  a  hoss  as  I  ever  heern  tell  on.  That  hoss  is 
a  blue  an'  he's  a  true  blue." 

"  All  right,  Kemp,"  said  Gerry,  smiling.  "  You  've 
named  him  true  blue  and  True  Blue  he  is  from  this 
day." 

Lieber  came  out  in  pajamas  and  called  them  for 
coffee.  When  they  were  seated  he  proposed  to  Kemp 
that  he  make  his  headquarters  at  the  ranch  for  a  while. 
The  advantages  were  evident.  It  was  a  congregating 
point  for  the  natives  from  miles  round.  Goatskins 
came  into  Lieber's  from  hundreds  of  miles  up  country. 
They  came  singly,  in  donkey  loads  or  in  whole  pack- 
trains.  Sometimes  they  passed  directly  into  his  hands 
from  the  producer ;  sometimes  they  ran  through  a  chain 
of  transfers,  from  hand  to  hand.  All  news  centered 
at  and  radiated  from  Lieber's.  The  same  men  that 

188 


HOME  180 

brought  in  goatskins  would  be  glad  to  add  orchids  to 
their  stock  in  trade. 

Kemp  grunted  his  thanks.  He  had  waited  two  years 
for  this  offer.  The  realization  of  the  obligation  Lieber 
was  putting  him  under  embarrassed  him.  He  began 
to  talk.  "  These  greasers,"  he  said,  "  take  a  lot  o' 
teachin'  sometimes,  an'  sometimes  they  don't.  P'r  in- 
stance, you  can  tell  'em  that  Cattleyas  are  wo'th  money 
and  that  the  rest  o'  their  parasites  ain't,  'nd  after  they 
seen  you  throw  Bu'lin'tonias  an'  Oncidiums  an'  Mil- 
tonias  into  the  discard  fo'  three  months  steady,  they 
begin  to  sober  down  to  jest  Cattleyas  'nd  realize  that 
it 's  no  use  holdin'  a  four-flush  against  a  workin' 
pair." 

At  the  scientific  names  dropping  so  incongruously 
from  Kemp's  lips,  Gerry  stopped  eating  and  looked  up. 
Lieber's  face  wore  the  smile  of  one  who  had  heard  it 
before  but  is  quite  willing  to  hear  it  all  over  again. 

"  But,"  continued  Kemp,  "  yo'  c'n  pull  till  you  're 
blin'  an'  you  can't  head  'em  around  to  see  that  onless 
a  Cattleya  has  eight  leaves,  it 's  too  young  to  be  packed 
an'  no  good  to  the  market  besides  bein'  a  victim  to  race 
suicide. 

"  As  to  their  bringin'  in  Bu'lin'tonias  an'  Oncidiums 
an'  Miltonias,  I  never  get  onpatient  o'  that.  How 
c'n  a  greaser  ever  learn  that  a  Miltonia  Spectabilis 
Moreliana  that  looks  like  pigeon's  blood  in  a  pu'ple 
shadow  ain't  a  commercial  proposition,  while  the  Cat- 
tleyas is  ?  When  he  's  in  the  woods  an'  a  smell  straight 
f'm  heaven  draps  its  rope  on  him  an'  he  looks  up  an' 
sees  a  droopin'  spike  o'  snow,  how  you  goin'  to  teach 


190  HOME 

him  that  a  Bu'lin'tonia  Fragrans  ain't  just  as  good  busi- 
ness as  a  Labiata  ? 

"  Time  was  when  orchids  was  an  ambition ;  now 
they 's  jest  a  business.  If  God-a'mighty  had  n't  a  scat- 
tered 'em  through  the  ends  o'  the  earth  an'  given  'em 
wings  to  fly  an'  claws  to  hold  on  half  way  up  to  heav'n 
the  'd  be  an  orchid  trust  right  now  an'  orchids  would 
be  classed  on  the  ma'ket  with  bananas.  Last  time  I  was 
hum  I  seen  a  bunch  o'  Cattleyas  in  O'Riley's  window  in 
El  Paso.  Seemed  like  a  bit  o'  po'try  had  jumped  the 
fence  'nd  landed  in  D'Hiley's  heart.  In  my  mind's  eye 
I  seen  him  impo'ting  them  plants  an'  nursin'  'em  an' 
turnin'  out  early  in  the  mo'nin's,  watchin'  fo'  'em  to 
bloom.  I  went  in  an'  had  a  talk.  Well,  gent'men,  the' 
wasn't  no  po'try  in  O'Eiley's  orchids.  It  had  been 
strained  out  with  a  separator.  Them  plants  was  growed 
by  a  nursery  back  East  and  shipped  out  to  O'Riley  by 
fast  freight  when  they  was  in  bud  at  so  much  per  plant. 
When  the  blooms  was  used  up,  he  shipped  the  plants 
back  an'  got  a  fresh  lot.  He  put  a  price  of  two  fifty 
a  bloom  on  the  flowers  an'  when  he  found  they  was  sellin' 
he  put  it  up  to  five  dollars.  He  said  them  flowers  was 
wo'th  more'n  a  column  o'  advertisin'  space  in  the  El 
Paso  Blizzard  an'  cost  a  dern  sight  less. 

"  In  Eurup,  it 's  some  different.  They 's  collectors 
hankerin'  after  new  varieties  an'  houses  that  keeps  men 
lookin'  for  'em  but  in  America,  you  ma'k  me,  if  an 
orchid  don't  make  up  well  on  the  missus'  bodice  or  on 
the  table,  it  ain't  business ;  an'  they  's  a  few  million  chil- 
dren growin'  up  to  the  idea  that  if  it  ain't  a  Cattleya 
it  ain't  an  orchid. 


HOME  191 

"  When  I  come  out  the  fust  time  the  house  told  me 
I  c'ld  shove  in  a  few  samples  of  the  varieties  outside  the 
reg'lar  line ;  they  'd  come  in  handy  for  flower  shows 
'nd  an  occasional  collector.  An'  I  did.  I  shoved  'em 
in  plenty.  An'  the  house  wrote  me  they  was  n't  runnin' 
a  curiosity  shop  an'  that  Americans  was  n't  buyin'  gold 
bricks  so  's  to  exhaust  the  stock  they  had  on  hand  an' 
if  I  did  n't  mind  would  I  please  confine  myse'f  to  com- 
mercial orchids.  Commercial  orchids.  That 's  my 
mount  an'  I  'm  ridin'  him  steady  but  I  can't  he'p  think- 
in'  that  they  's  many  a  missus  back  hum,  an'  man  too, 
that  would  catch  the'  breath  to  see  the  blood  pu'ple  of 
a  Miltonia  lookin'  up  from  its  green  leaves  or  to  smell 
the  smell  of  the  Bu'lin'tonia  —  a  smell  that  can  talk  an' 
say  things  that  a  man  can't." 

Kemp  came  to  himself,  blushed  and  hurried  out  as 
if  on  urgent  business.  Lieber  looked  at  Gerry's  thought- 
ful face  and  smiled.  "  Who  'd  have  thought  he  'd  ever 
talk  that  way  in  daylight  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  think,"  replied  Gerry,  "  it  was  your  offering  to 
let  him  make  this  place  his  headquarters.  It  rattled 
him  and  started  him  off.  I  could  see  he  was  grateful." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  it,"  said  Lieber.  "  He  's  a  queer 
one.  He  never  asked  me.  It  just  occurred  to  me  to 
suggest  it  because  I  'm  getting  to  enjoy  having  Kemp 
around.  Look  at  last  night." 

Gerry  nodded.  His  eyes  fell  on  the  clock  and  he 
got  up  with  a  start.  The  sun  was  at  its  highest  when 
he  reached  Fazenda  Flores.  He  caught  sight  of  Father 
Mathias'  great  white  umbrella  on  the  bridge  and  urged 
True  Blue  into  a  final  gallop.  But  Father  Mathias  was 


192  HOME 

not  under  his  umbrella.  Instead,  Gerry  found  Mar- 
garita and  her  toddling  son.  "  Thou  hast  been  away 
a  long  time,"  said  Margarita  reproachfully.  "  The 
priest  is  at  the  house  and  I  took  his  umbrella  that  I  and 
the  Man  might  watch  for  thee  in  the  sun." 

Gerry  jumped  off  his  horse  and  kissed  her.  Then 
he  picked  up  his  son  and  set  him  in  the  saddle.  Mar- 
garita screamed.  True  Blue  arched  his  neck  and  looked 
cautiously  around  at  his  featherweight  burden.  The 
young  horse  stood  very  still  while  Margarita  fought  past 
Gerry's  arm  and  dragged  the  Man  from  his  perilous 
perch  to  her  bosom.  And  manlike  the  Man  protested 
with  a  bad-tempered,  whole-lunged  wail  that  rent  the 
air  and  brought  Dona  Maria  and  the  priest  to  the  corner 
of  the  house  to  peer  at  them  with  eyes  shaded  under 
cupped  hands. 

A  few  days  later  the-  rains  came  in  earnest.  Un- 
ceasing torrents  that  drew  a  continual  hum  from  the  tiles 
of  the  roof,  sought  out  cracks,  forgotten  during  the  long 
dry  season,  and  dripped  in  to  remind  the  cozy  house- 
hold that  outside  the  whole  world  was  wet. 

Gerry  spent  two  days  in  the  wet  closing  his  sluice- 
gate and  shoring  it  from  the  inside  against  eventualities. 
Then  he  repaired  to  the  house  and  after  lavishing  his 
enforced  idleness  on  his  son  for  a  day  or  two,  began  to 
work  feverishly  on  further  knick-knacks  for  the  house. 
Occasionally  he  sallied  out  and  climbed  the  slippery 
roof  to  mend  a  leak,  Margarita,  frightened,  taking  her 
stand  in  the  rain  to  guard  over  him  with  disconcerting 
cries  and  warnings.  When,  occasionally,  there  hap- 
pened to  be  a  truce  to  the  downpour,  he  hurried  out  with 


HOME  193 

Bonifacio  to  battle  against  prolific  weeds  that  sprang  to 
weird  heights  in  a  night. 

The  rains  passed.  Gerry  contracted  with  Lieber  for 
labor  to  be  paid  for  in  produce.  Fazenda  Flores  blos- 
somed and  bore  fruit.  People  began  to  come  in  from 
afar  to  barter  for  produce  and  a  buyer  appeared  and 
took  over  the  whole  of  the  little  cotton  crop.  Gerry 
poured  money  into  Margarita's  lap  —  more  money  than 
she  had  ever  seen  —  and  sent  her  under  escort  of  Dona 
Maria  and  Bonifacio  and  the  Man  to  purchase  all  of 
comfort  and  furbelows  that  the  tiny  market  of  Piranhas 
could  supply. 

They  were  to  be  gone  two  days  and  Gerry  left  the 
Fazenda  in  charge  of  his  foreman  to  go  and  spend  the 
time  with  Lieber  and  Kemp.  He  found  Kemp  in  a 
sort  of  controlled  elation  over  the  greatest  shipment  of 
commercial  orchids  the  trade  had  ever  known.  Just 
after  Gerry's  arrival  two  men  appeared  bearing  a  mon- 
ster plant  of  over  two  hundred  leaves  strung,  like  the 
grape  cluster  of  Eschol,  on  a  pole. 

Kemp's  deep-set  eyes  seemed  to  grow  out  of  his  head 
as  he  made  out  their  burden.  "  Hi-yi !  "  he  yelled  and 
rushed  off  to  the  corral  where  he  threw  himself  on  to 
an  astonished  heifer.  For  one  second  she  squatted  and 
then  went  mad.  With  yell  and  flogging  hat  Kemp 
poured  oil  on  the  fire  of  her  frenzy.  She  bucked  and 
twisted  and  all  but  somersaulted  in  her  efforts  to  rid  her- 
self of  the  demon  on  her  back.  On  the  veranda,  Lieber 
and  Gerry  held  their  sides  and  roared  at  the  most 
grotesque  fine  riding  they  had  ever  seen.  Finally,  with 
a  desperate  lunge,  the  heifer  breasted  the  corral  fence. 


194  HOME 

It  caught  her  middle  and  she  teetered  over.  Kemp 
turned  a  handspring  from  her  back  and  landed  on  his 
feet.  The  heifer  scrambled  free  from  the  fence  and 
tore,  wild-eyed,  out  into  the  desert.  Laughter  rang 
from  every  side.  Three  herders  threw  themselves  on 
to  their  horses  and  rode,  shouting,  after  the  heifer. 
Kemp  straightened  out  his  hat,  put  it  on,  and  walked 
sedately  over  to  the  veranda.  There  was  only  a  faint 
glint  in  his  eye  as  he  bought  the  monster  plant  to 
crown  the  monster  shipment. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

ON  Red  Hill  it  was  raining,  not  in  a  downpour  but 
in  vast  veils  of  mist  that  swayed  to  the  breeze, 
caressing  the  hills  and  hiding  the  valleys.  It  had  been 
raining  for  three  days. 

After  lunch  Clem  had  gone  to  her  room  and  then 
had  come  down  again  and  wandered  from  window  to 
window,  tapping  the  panes,  and  with  her  forefinger 
tracing  the  course  of  the  drops  of  water  hurrying  down 
outside. 

She  went  to  the  veranda  at  the  back  of  Maple  House 
and  searched  the  west  in  vain  for  a  gleam  of  sunlight, 
then  she  came  in  again  and  sat  down  before  her  little 
writing-table  in  the  corner  of  the  library.  She  dropped 
the  lid.  On  the  blotter  lay  an  opened  letter.  She  had 
read  it  before.  She  picked  it  up  and  read  it  again. 
"  I  do  not  write,"  it  ran,  "  to  the  Clem  I  met  the  other 
day  as  I  stepped  out  from  J.  Y.'s  building.  I  do  not 
know  her  and  she  doesn't  know  me.  I  am  afraid  of 
her,  not  for  what  she  is  but  for  what  she  can  steal  from 
me.  I  write  to  the  little  Clem  —  the  Clem  of  the  days 
that  won't  come  back  —  the  Clem  that  has  stood  at  my 
knee  and  clapped  her  hands  and  wept  at  the  same  time 
over  the  fate  of  a  Very  Real  Dragon  That  Was  Not. 
Dear  Little  Clem,  what  bewildering  company  you  are 
keeping!  What  has  become  of  those  lanky  legs,  those 

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thin  bare  arms  and  those  flouncy  short  skirts  that  were 
so  very  much  out  of  the  way  ?  You  have  abandoned 
them.  How  could  you  when  you  knew  I  loved  them 
just  so !  And  you  are  hiding  in  the  vision  of  flesh  and 
furs  and  broadcloth  that  put  me  to  rout  in  front  of  J. 
Y.'s. —  that  tied  my  tongue  and  twisted  it  so  that  when 
it  got  loose  it  said  the  things  that  were  furthest  from  my 
heart.  I  know  you  are  there  because  the  eyes  that 
looked  out  at  me  before  they  crinkled  up  were  your  very 
own. 

"Clem,  it 's  hard  for  me  to  spread  my  heart  on  paper. 
Warm  words  get  chilled  in  the  tub  of  ink  and  belie 
themselves.  There  is  only  one  way  and  that  is  just  to 
tell  you  that  in  spite  of  how  things  may  look  and  seem 
my  heart  is  warm.  Without  understanding  you  can 
forgive  a  warm  heart,  can't  you  ? 

"  I  told  you  I  'd  bring  back  my  other  self  and  send 
him  to  you.  I  failed.  Not  because  I  did  n't  have  him 
with  me  but  because  I  wanted  to  send  him  to  you  with- 
out the  rest  of  me  and  could  n't. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  why  I  could  n't.  You  must  under- 
stand it  without  telling.  I  can  only  say  that  even  to- 
day men  are  tested  by  fire.  It's  a  fire  one  can't 
smother  —  it  would  only  smolder  on.  One  must  let  it 
burn  out.  It  burns  out  the  half  of  a  man  and  some 
men  don't  know  which  half  is  going  to  be  burned  out 
until  it 's  all  over.  It  is  that  way  with  me.  My  soul 
is  a  furnace.  I  could  n't  bring  it  too  near  for  fear  it 
would  scorch  you.  There,  I  have  written  too  much. 
If  you  find  that  the  words  are  cold  when  they  get  to 
you,  warm  them  at  the  fire  of  your  child  heart.  Alan." 


HOME  197 

The  Clem  that  read  this  letter  looked  very  much  a 
woman.  She  was  nineteen,  her  hair  was  coiled  up  at 
the  back  of  her  neck,  and  her  frock  when  she  stood  up 
almost  hid  her  slim  ankles.  Alan's  letter  troubled  her 
and  made  her  feel  even  older  than  she  was.  It  brought 
to  her  white  forehead  a  tiny  frown.  Clem  was  as 
tanned  as  a  long  summer  could  brown  her  but  above  her 
brows  the  skin  was  quite  white  because  she  had  such 
a  lot  of  hair  that  there  was  always  some  of  it  breaking 
loose  to  shade  her  forehead. 

Suddenly  the  frown  vanished.  Clem's  full  lips 
opened  in  a  little  smile  and  a  glow  stole  into  the  tan 
of  her  cheeks.  She  jumped  up  and  ran  to  the  old  pier 
glass  in  the  parlor,  otherwise  known  as  the  Seldom 
Room,  so  rarely  was  it  invaded. 

Clem  pulled  down  her  hair  and  shook  it  out.  Then 
she  took  a  bright  red  ribbon  from  a  whisk  broom  hang- 
ing on  the  wall  and  gathering  her  hair  at  the  back  of 
her  neck,  tied  it  with  a  bow.  With  the  instinct  of  a 
woman  she  looked  for  pins  and  found  them.  She 
turned  up  her  skirts  in  a  broad  pleat  and  pinned  them. 
She  had  to  do  it  several  times  over  to  get  the  tucks 
just  right  and  the  hang  just  so.  She  shook  her  head  to 
tumble  her  hair  and  turned  for  a  last  look  in  the  glass. 
She  was  a  little  girl  once  more.  Her  eyes  laughed  back 
at  her.  They  were  half  light,  half  shadow.  They 
seemed  to  understand  her. 

Clem  ran  back  to  the  library.  A  shaft  of  sunlight 
struck  across  Alan's  open  letter.  She  snatched  up  the 
letter  and  tucked  it  in  her  bosom.  Then  she  followed 
the  shaft  of  sunlight  on  to  the  back  veranda. 


198  HOME 

For  a  moment  she  stood  poised  before  sinking  to  a 
seat  on  a  bench.  She  crossed  her  knees  and  smiled 
at  her  slim,  well-shaped  legs.  It  was  so  long  since  she 
had  consciously  seen  them  that  they  were  almost 
strangers.  Then  she  forgot  them,  braced  her  hands  on 
the  bench  at  each  side  of  her,  threw  back  her  head, 
filled  her  lungs  with  the  keen  air  and  felt  her  heart  begin 
to  pulse  with  the  pulse  of  the  living  Hill. 

Her  eyes  grew  large  and  dreamy.  In  their  depths 
were  swirling  clouds,  chased  by  a  growing  light.  Her 
eyes  mirrored  the  world  of  Red  Hill  after  rain.  Clem's 
head  slowly  dropped  until  her  chin  rested  on  her  bosom. 
She  locked  her  hands  about  her  knees.  Then,  with  a 
last  look  about  her,  she  rose  slowly,  slipped  in  and  sat 
down  at  her  desk. 

"  Dear  Alan,"  she  wrote,  "  this  is  not  a  letter  about 
you  and  me  but  just  only  about  Red  Hill.  We  've  had 
a  Northeaster  —  not  a  blusterer,  but  one  of  those  sleepy 
ones  that  rains  and  rains  like  a  baby  crying  because 
it 's  lonely.  And  now  the  third  day  and  the  storm  are 
over  and  the  sun  has  come  out.  You  know  what  that 
means,  Alan.  Eed  Hill  is  n't  exactly  laughing  but  it 
is  smiling  with  that  sweet  first  smile  that  comes  to 
babies  and  hills  while  their  cheeks  are  still  wet  with 
tears. 

"  The  maples  are  still  dripping,  mostly  at  the  edges, 
like  big  umbrellas.  The  firs  look  as  if  they  had  taken 
their  bath  in  black  paint  and  are  busy  making  every- 
thing else  in  sight  look  white.  The  elms  are  waving 
their  plumes  at  the  vanishing  plumes  of  mist  as  though 
they  wanted  to  be  polite  but  are  n't  very  sorry  to  say 


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good-by.  The  sun,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  looks  as  if  he  had 
been  drinking  too  much.  He  's  very  red  and  he  's  wear- 
ing a  great  spiked  halo  of  rain  shafts  tipped  at  an  ab- 
surd, rakish  angle.  He  does  n't  seem  a  bit  ashamed  and 
the  smile  on  his  face  looks  as  if  he  meant  to  make  a 
night  of  it  somewhere  out  of  sight. 

"  Outdoors  there  's  quite  a  nip  in  the  air  that  makes 
you  feel  as  though  with  the  rest  of  the  world  you  had 
just  stepped  out  of  a  cold  bath.  But  inside,  Maple 
House  is  cozy  and  warm  and  I  know  that  when  presently 
I  curl  up  on  the  lounge  I  shall  feel  like  a  chick  nestling 
against  its  mama  hen  where  the  feathers  are  downiest. 

"  Maple  House  is  very  lonely  just  now  because  there 
are  n't  any  other  chicks  about.  Nance  has  taken  her 
lot  back  to  town  because  Charlie  Sterling  says  they  are 
quite  full  of  health  and  he  's  fuller  of  loneliness.  As 
for  grown-ups,  Uncle  J.  Y.  is  in  town  a  great  deal  this 
summer  on  account  of  other  people's  money  and  the  old 
Captain  never  gets  out  of  bed  since  he  had  a  stroke. 
He  says  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  him;  it 's  the 
modern  whisky  that  has  lost  its  tone. 

"  So  I  'm  mostly  alone  with  Aunty,  and  Maple  House 
seems  almost  too  big  to  fit.  But  it  is  n't  a  bit  too  big 
when  I  stop  to  think  because  I  know  that  the  old  house 
does  n't  stand  for  any  one  of  us  alone, —  it  has  to  keep 
a  nook  for  every  one  of  its  scattered  brood. 

"  That 's  the  dear  thing  about  Maple  House  —  it  is 
always  waiting.  And  that 's  what  makes  it  Home. 
Sometimes  in  the  lonely  nights  I  wake  up  into  a  dream 
and  the  old  house  is  ringing  with  the  sounds  of  the 
children  of  a  hundred  years  at  play.  They  laugh  and 


200  HOME 

sometimes  they  cry  but  there  is  one  that  never  laughs 
or  cries.  He  is  a  chubby  little  boy  with  awfully  staring 
eyes  for  a  baby  and  he  carries  a  wooden  sword  and  a 
paper  drum.  It 's  the  old  Captain,  I  'm  sure,  and  once 
you  have  seen  him  as  a  chubby  soldier  of  three  you  '11 
begin  to  know  the  secret  of  Maple  House  —  that  it 's 
waiting  for  us  to  come  back  young  or  old.  And  if  you 
are  very,  very  still  for  a  very  long  time  you  can  hear  the 
old  house  breathe,  and  then  you  know  that  in  every 
closet  and  in  every  corner  it  has  hidden  away  a  beat- 
ing heart.  It  never  loses  one. 

"  Dear  Alan,  when  I  started  to  write  this  letter  I 
was  quite  a  little  girl  —  now  I  find  I  'm  quite  grown 
up.  I  'm  sorry.  But  it  only  goes  to  prove  that  you  are 
wrong,  and  that  it  takes  more  than  a  half  to  make  up 
one's  self.  Clem." 


CHAPTEE  XVIII 

THAT  dry  season  saw  the  beginning  of  a  drought 
that  will  long  hold  the  blackest  page  in  the  annals 
of  the  San  Francisco  basin.  It  seemed  but  days  after 
the  rains  when  the  sparse  grass  and  new-leafed  bushes  of 
the  wilderness  began  to  shrivel  up.  Day  after  day  the 
sun  leaped  brazen,  from  the  horizon  to  the  sky,  his 
first  level  rays  searching  out  the  scant,  stored  moisture 
of  wilting  foliage,  and  the  very  sap  of  the  hardy  brush. 
While  the  cattle  were  still  fat  they  became  weak  and 
turned  to  cactus  for  nourishment.  They  broke  down 
the  sickly  branches  with  their  horns  and  rubbed  them  in 
the  sand  to  free  them  of  the  worst  of  the  thorns. 
Herders  rode  the  rounds  on  weakening  horses  and  dis- 
mounted time  and  again  to  pull  out  spines  from  the 
snouts  of  passive,  panting  cows.  Bulls  died  of  broken 
pride.  They  would  not  subject  themselves  to  the  pain 
of  eating  cactus.  The  river  —  the  great  river  —  was 
no  longer  great.  It  grumbled  with  a  weak  voice  from 
deep  down  in  the  gorge.  Gerry  watched  its  falling  level 
with  anxious  eye  and  one  day  sent  an  urgent  call  to 
Lieber  for  help. 

Laeber  came.  He  brought  with  him  an  army,  every 
man  bearing  with  him  the  tool  that  had  come  soonest  to 
his  hand.  Spades  were  few  and  hoes ;  the  bright  shares 
of  a  pick  or  two  caught  the  light  like  lances.  Most  of 

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the  men  depended  on  the  heavy  sheath  knives  they 
carried  at  their  sides.  They  looked  like  an  army  of 
sanscullottes  as  they  swarmed  into  the  ditch  and  began 
to  dig.  In  two  days  they  had  sunk  it  to  the  required 
level.  When  they  finished  Gerry  rode  back  with  them 
to  help  bring  down  Lieber's  weakening  stock. 

Kemp  had  stayed  in  sole  possession  at  Lieber's. 
Digging  was  not  in  his  line,  so  he  had  volunteered  to 
hold  the  fort  against  the  return  of  the  garrison.  He 
welcomed  Lieber  and  Gerry  to  a  supper  of  his  own 
making  in  approved  cowboy  style:  sour-dough  biscuits 
made  by  a  master  hand,  steaks  cut  from  a  freshly  killed 
calf  and  fried  before  toughness  set  in,  a  pile  of  creamy 
mashed  spuds.  There  was  a  homeliness  about  the  meal 
that  made  them  eat  in  silence.  They  felt  as  though  for 
years  they  had  been  worshiping  false  culinary  gods. 
The  pile  of  steaks,  the  heaped  potatoes,  the  hot  biscuit, 
were  exotics,  strayed  into  a  land  of  pepper  sauces  and 
garlic.  The  supper  seemed  to  the  three  men  to  take 
on  a  personality  and  to  be  ill  at  ease,  but  it  was  they 
that  were  ill  at  ease  for  the  supper  reminded  them  that 
they  were  exiles. 

The  silence  on  the  veranda  that  night  was  even  longer 
than  usual.  Gerry's  mind  went  back  to  a  French  book 
that  he  had  bought  in  desperation  at  Pernambuco.  He 
had  ploughed  through  half  of  it  and  with  a  catch  in  his 
thoughts  he  remembered  that  it  lay  open  on  the  table 
when  he  left  his  little  room  in  Piranhas  on  the  morning 
of  mornings  that  had  broken  life  in  two.  Some  of 
its  phrases,  conned  over  and  over  again  in  his  struggle 
with  the  half-forgotten  idiom,  came  back  to  him.  "  La 


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parole  est  du  temps,  le  silence  de  I'tiernite."  He 
smiled  to  himself  at  the  twisted  meaning  the  long  silence 
of  his  companions  gave  to  the  words. 

Then  the  smile  left  his  face.  He  remembered  the 
argument.  The  instinct  we  all  have  for  superhuman 
truths  tells  us  that  it  is  dangerous  to  be  silent  with 
those  we  would  keep  at  a  distance,  for  words  pass  and 
are  forgotten  between  men,  but  silence  —  active  silence 
—  is  forever  ineffaceable.  True  life  —  the  moments  of 
life  that  leave  a  trace  —  is  made  up  of  silence.  Not 
passive  silence ;  that  is  but  another  name  for  sleep.  But 
the  active  silence  that  breaks  down  barriers,  pierces 
walls,  and  turns  the  life  of  every  day  into  a  life  where 
all  is  intense,  where  there  is  no  ban  —  nothing  for- 
bidden — •  where  laughter  dare  not  enter,  where  subjec- 
tion is  submerged  and  where  all  —  all,  is  remembered. 

Gerry  felt  that  this  active  silence  had  come  upon 
them.  These  men  were  being  borne  into  the  silent 
sphere  of  his  own  soul.  He  felt  restless  —  afraid.  He 
decided  to  speak.  He  was  on  the  point  of  speaking 
when  Lieber  let  down  his  chair  softly,  clasped  his  hands 
and  broke  the  silence. 

"Last  night  I  dreamed  I  heard  the  blast  of  a 
steamer's  horn  and  when  I  woke  up  the  cold  sweat  was 
on  my  forehead  because  I  know  that  there  is  no  desert, 
no  wilderness,  so  far  from  the  things  you  would  forget 
that  dreams  cannot  follow  you  to  it." 

He  stopped  and  silence  fell  upon  them  again.  Lieber 
stared  straight  in  front  of  him,  out  into  the  night.  His 
face  worked  as  though  he  were  struggling  to  keep  his 
lips  closed.  When  he  began  to  speak  again,  the  words 


204  HOME 

were  scarcely  audible.  "  I  don't  know  why  I  want  to 
tell  you  two  about  why  I  am  here,  unless  it  is  that  as 
we  sat  here  so  quiet  I  felt  that  you  knew  it  all  —  that 
you  knew  all  that  I  know  and  that  I  was  on  the  point 
of  knowing  all  that  you  have  known.  The  little  lies 
of  life  suddenly  became  big  and  hateful  and  I  saw  in 
my  life  a  monster  lie  that  the  silence  was  exposing. 

"  There  are  lots  of  men  with  the  beginning  of  my 
story.  It 's  common  and  takes  little  telling.  I  was 
born  in  Pennsylvania.  We  were  mighty  poor  farmers 
but  I  got  all  the  schooling  there  was  within  walking 
distance  of  home.  My  old  man  saw  to  that.  When 
I  was  still  a  boy  our  little  bank  took  me  in.  It  was  n't 
doing  much  business  then  but  a  couple  of  years  later 
the  region  struck  oil  and  the  bank's  business  soared  by 
leaps  and  bounds.  It  turned  into  as  good  a  spouter  as 
any  of  the  wells.  The  family  that  ran  it  became  rich 
and  went  to  higher  jobs  or  out  altogether.  The  staff 
was  shoved  up  and  about  the  time  I  was  of  age  I  was 
handling  more  money  than  I  'd  ever  known  was  in  the 
world.  The  amount  I  stole  was  an  even  thirty  thousand 
and  I  got  away  with  it.  It  was  easier  to  do  thirty 
years  ago  than  it  is  to-day.  I  got  away  with  it  and  then 
it  got  away  with  me.  It  lasted  me  a  year  and  four 
months  and  I  saw  the  end  of  it  up  the  coast  at  Pernam- 
buco. 

"  I  date  my  birth  from  the  day  I  spent  the  last  dollar 
and  woke  up.  I  worked.  Nothing  was  too  small  or 
too  big  for  me  to  handle.  I  got  something  to  risk  and 
then  I  risked  it.  I  risked  it  again  and  again.  After 
ten  years  I  could  draw  my  check  for  thirty  thousand  plus 


HOME  205 

interest  and  I  did.  I  sent  the  check  to  the  little  bank 
back  home.  I  waited  two  months  for  the  answer  and 
then  it  came;  my  check  torn  across  and  a  short  letter 
saying  that  the  loss  had  already  been  met  by  a  bankers' 
surety  association.  I  wrote  the  association  a  dozen 
letters  and  some  of  them  took  some  writing.  In  the 
last  I  offered  fourfold  the  theft.  There  had  been 
plenty  of  Bible  in  my  bringing-up.  They  wrote  back 
that  it  was  no  use  —  that  I  could  keep  on  climbing  in 
price  but  it  was  their  business  to  jail  me  for  fifteen 
years  the  first  chance  they  got  and  they  'd  do  it  the 
minute  I  set  foot  where  they  could  grab  me. 

"  That  letter  frightened  me.  I  began  to  realize  that 
what  I  'd  been  working  for  was  n't  money,  or  honor,  or 
rehabilitation  but  just  the  right  to  go  back  —  the  right 
to  go  back  home. 

"  Nobody  had  been  harder  on  me  than  my  old  man. 
For  years  nobody  in  the  house  was  allowed  to  say  my 
name  and  if  he  saw  a  letter  from  me  he  threw  it  in  the 
fire,  opened  or  unopened.  But  somehow  it  got  to  him 
that  I  had  offered  to  pay  fourfold  and  that  I  'd  been 
refused  and  that  turned  him.  It  was  the  fourfold  that 
did  it  —  the  divine  and  sacred  measure  of  justice.  He 
started  to  fight  for  me  as  hard  as  he'd  ever  fought 
against.  And  then  he  died  and  my  old  mother  died. 
Letters  stopped.  My  brothers  and  sisters  were  coming 
up  in  the  world.  They  could  n't  afford  to  own  a  thief 
much  less  fight  for  him.  So  the  letters  stopped. 

"  I  spent  money  then.  I  built  me  a  house  in  Per- 
nambuco  that  was  a  wonder  palace  and  I  started  in  to 
forget.  But  when  you've  been  remembering  with  all 


206  HOME 

your  might,  the  color  of  the  paper  on  the  walls  of  home, 
the  lay  of  the  wood-pile,  of  the  sheds  and  the  tumbling 
barn  and  stables,  the  holes  in  the  fence,  the  friendly 
limbs  of  apple  trees  and  the  smell  of  hay ;  when  you  've 
been  coddling  bare  memories  of  simple  things  like  those 
for  fifteen  years,  you  can't  turn  around  on  your  inside 
self  and  forget. 

"  There  's  a  flag  the  sight  of  which  makes  my  heart 
come  up  into  my  throat  and  tears  to  my  eyes.  You 
think  I  mean  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  but  I  don't.  I 
mean  the  Blue  Peter  that  flies  at  the  halliards  of  big 
ships  and  says  to  everybody  that  takes  the  trouble  to 
look,  '  We  sail  to-day.'  Over  the  tops  of  the  houses  I  Ve 
seen  that  flag  blinking  in  the  heavens  like  a  bit  of  deep 
blue  sea  married  to  a  white  cloud  and  to  me  it  always 
said,  '  We  sail  for  home  to-day.'  I  'd  shut  my  eyes  or 
close  the  blinds  but  what  was  the  use  of  that  ?  Night 
and  day  I  could  hear  the  bellow  of  the  great  horns  — 
a  blast  for  good-by  and  another  for  a  challenge  to  the 
sea  —  as  the  big  boats  headed  out  for  home. 

"  I  could  n't  stand  it.  I  came  up  here.  And  now, 
last  night,  I  dreamed  that  I  heard  it  in  my  sleep  —  up 
here.  Gentlemen,  a  man  without  a  country  is  in  a  bad 
way  but  a  man  without  a  home  even  if  it 's  a  hovel  — 
well  —  we  all  know  the  old  song."  He  paused  to 
master  his  voice.  Then  in  a  whisper  that  they  just 
caught  he  added,  "  Home  is  the  anchor  of  a  man's  soul. 
I  want  to  go  Home." 

Lieber  stopped  talking.  The  revealing  silence  had 
done  its  work.  It  had  brought  them  close  —  so  close 
that  he  had  spoken  lest  they  take  his  soul  by  assault. 


HOME  207 

He  left  them  and  went  to  his  own  room.  They  saw  he 
was  an  old  man,  beyond  the  years  he  had  disclosed. 

They  did  not  speak.  They  were  nervous.  Kemp 
made  a  cigarette,  puffed  at  it  once  or  twice  and  then 
threw  it  away,  to  roll  another  a  moment  later.  His 
thoughts  were  winging  away  to  the  fork  of  Big  and 
Little  Creek  where  a  three-room  shack  stood  in  the 
shadow  of  the  White  Mountains  of  New  Mexico.  He 
had  thought  it  small,  miserable,  cramped.  But  out  here 
in  the  wilderness,  thousands  and  thousands  of  miles 
away,  it  came  back  to  his  vision,  glorified. 

The  purling,  gentle  waters,  fringed  near  the  moun- 
tains with  tall,  still  pines,  banked  down  the  valley  with 
friendly  cottonwoods,  seemed  another  element  from  the 
sullen  river  rumbling  across  the  night  from  its  cruel 
gorge.  The  billowing  range,  stretching  away  from 
Little  Creek  till  it  met  the  sky,  crested  with  twisted 
junipers  and  evergreen  cedars,  with  its  famous  gramma- 
grass  undulating  under  cool  breezes  from  the  snow- 
capped mountains,  seemed  to  call  to  his  lungs  with  soft, 
breathing  noises.  And  the  Mountain  —  the  Mountain 
that  winter  and  summer  had  kept  its  white,  dazzling 
summit  before  him,  leading  him  back  from  the  far 
round-up  and  the  trail  to  the  little  shack  in  its  shadow. 
A  swelling  came  into  his  throat.  He  tried  to  cough 
it  up.  But  as  long  as  he  thought  of  the  Mountain,  the 
thickness  stuck  in  his  throat.  He  took  from  his  pocket 
a  treasured  cake  of  tobacco  and  with  strong  teeth  tore 
off  a  generous  portion.  Then  he  rose  and  walked  off 
to  the  corral. 

Gerry  sat  on  alone.     Thoughts  were  troubling  him, 


208  HOME 

too.  What  was  he  doing  here  ?  Who  was  this  Marga- 
rita that  had  twined  herself  into  his  life  ?  Was  it  his 
life?  And  her  little  boy  —  black-haired,  black-eyed, 
olive-tinted  —  he  was  his  boy,  too.  He  was  Gerry  Lan- 
sing's son.  'No,  not  that  —  not  Gerry  Lansing's. 
Gerry  Lansing  belonged  to  a  time  that  was  far  away,  to 
a  hill  where  white  houses  with  green  blinds  peered  out 
from  the  darkness  of  domed  maples,  from  the  long 
shadows  of  up-pointing  firs  and  from  the  eaves  of  flar- 
ing elms,  the  wine-cups  of  heaven. 

Gerry  felt  his  spirit  flying  away  to  wander  in  cool 
lanes  where  birch  and  sassafras  and  rioting  laurel 
burned  incense  under  a  kindly  sun  and  slender  wood- 
maples  bent  under  the  breeze  against  sturdy  hickory 
and  ash.  It  led  him  to  look  back  upon  the  glory  of  the 
mountain-ash  in  autumn  and  of  the  turning  of  the 
leaves.  A  sigh  came  quivering  through  all  his  body 
and  escaped  from  his  trembling  lips.  "  I  am  alone," 
he  breathed  to  himself. 

Never  had  he  been  alone  before  —  never  like  that. 
For  the  first  time  in  over  two  years  he  thought  of  his 
mother,  of  the  Judge  who  had  been  a  father  to  him,  of 
all  the  Hill,  of  Alix,  and  then,  of  Alan.  Where  were 
Alix  and  Alan  ?  Suddenly  the  vision  of  Margarita  and 
her  boy  pushed  in  between  him  and  memory.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet.  His  manhood  rose  within  him  and 
battled  with  her  and  the  child  against  memory.  He 
started  off  into  the  wilderness.  His  sandals  shot  spurts 
of  sand  and  dust  into  the  air  behind  him  at  every  step. 
He  smelt  the  dust.  Above  him,  the  myriad  stars  shone 


HOME  209 

dry    and   far,   far   up   in   the  heavens.     Heaven  was 
farther  from  the  world  to-night  than  ever  before. 

Gerry  came  back  at  dawn.  The  herders  were  mount- 
ing to  round  up  the  stock.  Gerry  saddled  his  horse 
and  went  with  them. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

DEEP  in  South  America,  on  the  ragged  fringe  of 
the  outskirts  of  progress,  Alan  Wayne  was  push- 
ing a  long  bridge  across  a  dried-up  watercourse.  He 
was  sick,  tired,  disgusted.  Over  and  over  again  he  had 
grumbled  to  McDougal  that  it  was  a  job  for  a  mason 
and  McDougal  had  patiently  answered,  "  I  'm  the 
mason,  Mr.  Wayne.  Do  you  lie  bye  a  wee  and  gie  the 
fever  a  chance  to  get  out  of  the  body."  But  Alan 
stuck  jealously  to  his  job.  Ten  Percent  Wayne  might 
retire  on  his  laurels  but  he  could  never  be  beaten. 

Every  third  day  the  fever  in  his  bones  seized  his 
body  in  a  grip  that  could  not  be  denied,  shook  it  till  it 
rattled  and  cast  it  down  limp,  cold  and  hot,  teeth  chatter- 
ing and  then  clenched,  and  then  chattering  again.  But 
on  the  days  between  Alan  made  up  for  the  lapse.  He 
became  a  devil  hanging  on  the  backs  of  his  men  and 
driving  them  to  superhuman  efforts.  Terror  held  them. 
They  were  Italians,  far  from  home.  A  wilderness 
stretched  between  them  and  the  sea.  The  sea  itself 
was  none  of  theirs;  it  was  but  an  added  barrier.  A 
madman  had  them  in  thrall.  Terror  drove  them.  It 
was  a  race  to  finish  the  bridge  before  he  killed  them. 
"  I  am  going  to  be  sick,"  he  had  told  them  in  cold,  rapid 
words,  "  I  am  going  to  be  sick  but  before  I  'm  finished 
the  bridge  is  finished  or — ."  He  smiled  and  made  a 

210 


HOME  -211 

gesture  with  his  hand  to  show  how  he  would  brush 
them  all  off  into  the  dry  gorge.  His  smile  terrified 
more  than  the  raised  hand. 

The  giant  gang-boss,  McDougal,  stood  by  and  nodded 
solemn  confirmation.  When  Alan  was  ill  by  day,  Mc- 
Dougal left  him  and  drove  the  men  in  his  stead  but 
when  the  hour  for  knocking  off  came  with  the  sudden 
eclipse  of  the  sun  by  the  horizon,  he  hurried  to  Alan's 
tent,  fished  him  out  from  some  corner  on  the  floor, 
wrapped  him  in  blankets,  dosed  him  with  quinine, 
tempted  him  with  poor,  weak  broths  and  nursed  him, 
unprotesting,  through  the  night. 

McDougal  had  followed  Alan  into  strange  lands  and 
strange  places  and  seen  him  in  many  a  deep  hole,  and 
through  it  all  Alan  had  been  the  same  —  a  purring 
dynamo  at  work.  He  had  been  the  same  until  this 
damned  trip  into  the  Brazilian  wilderness  and  here  a 
change  had  come  over  him.  There  were  times  when  he 
talked  and  what  he  said  was,  "  !No  more  trips  for  me, 
McDougal.  I  'm  a  consulting  engineer  from  this  on." 
McDougal  had  heard  more  than  one  man  talk  like  that 
under  fever  and  he  frowned,  trying  to  remember  one  of 
them  that  had  ever  come  back. 

Alan  was  inured  to  river  fever.  He  had  fought  it 
often  and  when  he  saw  the  fetid  pools  of  stagnant 
water  in  the  dried-up  water  course  he  knew  he  would 
have  to  fight  it  again.  Somehow,  some  night,  a  mos- 
quito was  bound  to  get  at  him,  and  the  fever  would 
begin.  He  doubled  his  preventive  dose  of  quinine  but 
he  could  not  double  his  spirits  for  the  battle.  He  came 
to  the  field  with  a  gnawing  at  those  sources  of  health, 


212  HOME 

a  calm  mind  and  sure  sleep.  Sleep  did  not  come  as  of 
old  after  the  day's  work.  Instead  he  tossed  and  twisted 
on  his  narrow  cot  and  finally  would  turn  on  the  electric 
torch  to  read  two  letters  over  and  over  again. 

One  he  read  with  a  curl  of  the  lip.  It  was  from  a 
pretty  woman  that  had  fluttered  into  his  life  and  out. 
He  had  forgotten  her  and  now  she  had  come  back  to 
buzz  words  in  his  buzzing  ears.  She  said,  "  It  costs  a 
woman  to  learn  that  happiness  is  not  really  tangible. 
Between  being  fortunate  and  happy  a  gulf  is  fixed.  I 
was  fortunate  —  just  not  miserable  —  and  stood  on  the 
brink  of  the  gulf.  Happiness  brushed  me  with  its 
wings.  I  reached  out  to  catch  it  and  the  gulf  took  me. 
How  long  will  it  be  before  I  climb  back  to  the  height 
that  seemed  not  so  very  high  when  I  possessed  it  ?  I 
don't  know  ...  I  do  not  hate  you, —  only  myself. 
You  have  known  many  women  but  you  have  not  known 
me.  That  is  the  bitter  part.  You  do  not  know  what 
I  gave  you.  One  thing  I  ask  you  and  the  words  as  I 
write  are  blurred  with  tears  like  my  eyes  —  if  ever  a 
foolish  woman,  honest  and  true  as  I  was,  offers  you  the 
same  sacrifice,  do  not  take  it.  I  have  suffered  for  all 
the  women  you  will  meet." 

"  Fool,"  said  Alan  to  himself,  "  fool  not  to  see  that 
I  turned  her  wish-washy  weakness  into  strength  and 
loosed  a  dumb  tongue." 

And  then  he  drew  out  the  other  letter  and  the  curl 
in  his  lip  straightened  out  to  a  line  of  sweetness  and  the 
light  in  his  eyes  turned  to  a  fiery,  blind  adoration.  The 
letter  had  been  sent  to  him,  sealed,  by  J.  Y.,  who  had 
accompanied  it  with  a  note.  The  letter  began,  "  To 


HOME  213 

my  boy  at  Thirty,"  and  ended,  "With  undying  love, 
your  friend  and  Mother."  In  life  he  could  not  remem- 
ber his  mother  but  he  saw  her  now  in  three  pages  of 
laboring  words  traced  by  a  dying  hand.  In  herself, 
dying  at  thirty,  she  had  seen  her  boy  revealed.  She  had 
had  no  strength  —  no  time  —  left  for  slow  approaches. 
With  the  first  words  of  her  letter  she  laid  a  cooling  hand 
on  his  burning  soul.  She  spoke  the  all-seeing  wisdom  of 
death.  She  held  him  close  to  her  heart  and  fed  him 
with  her  life's  blood.  All  that  she  had  been,  all  that 
she  had  learned,  all  that  she  foresaw,  was  crowded  into 
those  three  pages.  They  were  brittle  with  age,  the  ink 
yellow  and  faded  in  words  that  no  eyes  but  his  and 
hers  had  ever  seen.  They  gripped  his  soul  and  held 
it  steady.  Without  this  letter  he  would  have  torn  up 
the  other.  But  the  other  had  come  as  a  complement 
and  he  kept  it  because  it  helped  him  to  see  himself. 

As  Alan  weakened,  the  bridge  approached  completion. 
Batches  of  men,  as  special  work  was  finished,  were 
despatched  to  the  coast.  With  each  batch  McDougal 
strove  to  send  his  master  but  Alan  was  too  weak  to  go 
though  he  did  not  say  so.  He  had  realized  it  with 
terror  and  then  with  calm.  "  ISTo,  McDougal,  not  this 
time,"  he  would  say,  and  finally,  "  I  think  I  might  just 
as  well  stay  on  till  they  send  up  to  take  over.  It 's 
unprofessional  to  chuck  it  before.  It  won't  be  long 
now."  And  McDougal  had  cursed  low  rolling  oaths 
and  taken  it  out  on  the  men. 

Alan  seemed  to  have  become  childish  in  his  weakness. 
He  spent  what  strength  he  had  left  in  cutting  words 
into  a  board  ripped  from  a  kerosene  box.  When  he  had 


214  HOME 

finished  he  called  McDougal  and  showed  him  his  handi- 
work. "  McDougal,"  he  said,  "  if  anything  should  hap- 
pen to  keep  me  here  permanently  just  cut  these  words 
into  some  big  rock  and  lay  me  under  it.  Be  careful 
you  get  them  just  so.  The  French  are  mighty  par- 
ticular about  the  way  we  use  their  lingo  and  while  it 
was  n't  a  Frenchman  that  wrote  this  bit  I  guess  he  'd 
be  just  as  particular." 

"  Aweel,  sir,"  said  McDougal,  stifling  his  rage  within 
him,  "  I  '11  do  as  you  wish."  He  took  the  board  and 
looked  at  it.  The  words  meant  nothing  to  him  but  the 
scene  meant  much.  He  went  out  and  concluded  his 
agreement  with  twelve  quiet,  lowering  men  gathered 
from  the  country  side.  They  were  pioneers  without 
knowing  it.  They  and  their  fathers  and  their  fathers' 
fathers  had  held  these  far  depths  of  the  world  against 
wild  beasts  and  drought  and  flood  since,  centuries  ago, 
the  Jesuits  swept  through  the  subcontinent  and  left  a 
trail  of  settlers  behind  them.  They  were  proud,  nar- 
row, independent.  They  were  uninventive,  unimagina- 
tive. No  man  among  them  had  ever  thought  to  lie. 
They  did  not  steal  though  they  were  robbed  whenever 
they  invaded  civilization  with  their  wares. 

From  them  McDougal  had  learned  that  due  east, 
halfway  to  the  sea,  was  a  place  called  Lieber's  and  that 
this  Lieber  was  known  as  the  Americano  and  had  fame 
as  a  curador  of  fevers.  Four  men  could  carry  a 
sick  man  to  Lieber's  in  a  hammock  in  four  days. 
Twelve  men  could  do  it  in  two,  and  quicker  than  that 
a  hundred  men  could  not  go.  For  the  price  of  three 
steers  each  —  two-year  olds  —  they  would  undertake 


HOME  215 

to  deliver  the  sick  man  at  Lieber's  in  two  days.  Mc- 
Dongal  pondered.  It  was  a  chance.  If  he  sent  Alan 
to  the  rail-head  there  wouldn't  be  even  a  chance. 
There  was  no  one  who  could  help  at  the  rail-head,  nor 
along  the  thin  line,  nor  even  at  the  coast. 

"  In  two  days,"  said  he  despairingly,  "  the  master 
will  be  dead." 

They  gathered  at  the  door  of  Alan's  tent  and  looked 
in  at  him  as  he  lay  half  comatose.  "  No,"  said  the 
oldest  of  them,  "  he  will  be  dead  in  seven  days'  time." 

As  McDougal  picked  him  up  and  laid  him  gently  in 
a  hammock,  Alan  came  to.  •  The  hammock  was  padded 
with  pillows  and  blankets  and  strung  on  a  stout  bamboo 
pole  with  two  men  at  each  end  supporting  it. 

"  What  are  you  doing  with  me  ? "  he  asked  angrily 
and  sank  back  into  the  pillows.  From  there  his  eyes 
glared  up  at  McDougal. 

"  I  'm  sending  ye  home,"  said  McDougal  gently  but 
firmly. 

Alan  smiled  a  twisted  smile.  "  Sending  me  home," 
he  repeated  and  added  resignedly,  "  Oh,  all  right." 
Then  he  started  up.  "  Bring  matches,"  he  said. 
McDougal  took  matches  from  his  pocket.  Alan  drew 
two  letters  from  inside  his  coat.  "  Burn  them."  He 
held  them  out  and  watched  jealously  as  McDougal 
opened  out  the  sheets  with  averted  eyes  and  set  fire 
to  the  thin  paper.  The  filmy  cinders  blew  hither  and 
thither  under  the  light  breeze.  The  men  under  the 
pole  moved  nervously,  anxious  to  be  off.  Their  eight 
companions  wheeled  their  flea-bitten  ponies  and  headed 
for  the  trail.  "No,  you  don't,"  shouted  McDougal 


216  HOME 

and  explained  with  many  gestures  that  they  were  to  ride 
behind  on  account  of  the  dust. 

"  We  know,  master,"  answered  one  quietly,  "  we 
would  but  start." 

McDougal  held  out  an  awkward  hand  in  farewell. 
"  You  're  ready,  Mr.  Wayne  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Alan  between  chattering  teeth,  and  then 
cried,  "  No,  I  want  the  board  —  my  epitaph  thing,  you 
know." 

McDougal  dived  into  the  tent  and  brought  out  the 
board  with  the  roughly  cut  words  that  he  could  not 
read  but  somehow  began  to  understand.  He  slipped  it 
into  the  hammock  behind  the  cushions  and  then  just 
touched  Alan's  hand  and  gave  the  word  to  the  men. 
They  started  off  in  a  shambling,  rapid  trot.  The  horse- 
men fell  in  behind.  A  cloud  of  dust  cut  them  off  from 
McDougal's  gaze.  He  turned  and  fell  upon  his  labor- 
ing squad  with  a  rolling  flood  of  curses.  To  them  the 
words  were  Greek,  but  nevertheless,  their  blood  curdled 
and  they  worked  as  only  Wayne  had  taught  them. 


CHAPTEE  XXX 

LIEBEE,  with  Gerry  and  Kemp,  sat  in  the  shade 
of  the  veranda,  smoking  after  the  midday  meal. 
The  stock  had  been  corralled  but,  on  Kemp's  advice,  the 
start  for  Fazenda  Flores  was  to  be  made  half-way 
through  the  afternoon.  There  was  to  be  a  great  moon 
that  night  and  the  drive  would  be  robbed  of  the  perils 
of  darkness  to  cattle  as  well  as  of  the  horrible  heat. 

The  three  were  silent,  half  somnolent,  when  a  pass- 
ing herder  grunted  and  pointed  westward  with  his  chin. 
Lieber  stood  up  and  looked.  A  pillar  of  dust  was  com- 
ing across  the  desert.  He  could  see  men  riding  and 
something  else.  He  took  his  field-glasses  from  a  peg 
and  looked  again.  "  Funeral,  or  a  sick  man,"  he  said 
and  sat  down  to  wait.  Kemp  started  whittling  to  keep 
himself  awake.  Since  the  hour  of  Lieber's  confession 
he  had  hardly  spoken. 

When  the  cavalcade  came  within  easy  view  Gerry 
stood  up  and  watched.  He  could  not  hide  his  curiosity 
like  Lieber  and  Kemp.  In  front  of  the  horses  came 
four  men  bearing  a  sagging  hammock  on  a  pole.  They 
were  running  in  quick,  springy  steps  that  made  the 
hammock  sway  gently  from  side  to  side.  The  pace 
they  kept  up  under  the  burden  was  marvelous.  They 
were  followed  closely  by  eight  horsemen.  At  the  first 
signs  of  faltering  among  the  bearers,  four  of  the  riders 

217 


218  HOME 

would  throw  themselves  off  their  ponies  and  run  under 
the  pole.  The  change  of  relay  was  made  without  a  stop, 
without  a  pause.  The  freed  ponies  stood  with  hanging 
heads  and  straddled  legs.  Even  from  a  distance  one 
could  see  that  the  burdened  men  had  run  the  wiry 
little  beasts  off  their  feet.  They  were  all  in,  but  the 
men  were  still  erect  —  keen.  With  a  final  spurt  the 
cortege  drew  up  before  the  veranda.  Lieber  stood  up. 
"  Dead  or  dying  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Master,  we  do  not  know,"  answered  the  oldest  of 
the  men,  their  leader. 

"  Fever  or  smallpox  ?  "  asked  Lieber. 

"  Fever." 

With  a  look  of  relief  Lieber  went  down  the  steps 
to  the  hammock.  A  sheet  had  been  thrown  over  the  pole 
to  keep  off  the  worst  of  the  sun.  He  pulled  it  off.  A 
ghastly  sight  met  his  eyes,  but  he  did  not  shrink. 
"  Bring  him  up  here,"  he  said,  springing  up  the  steps 
and  sweeping  a  saddle  harness  and  some  old  magazines 
off  a  great  rawhide  settle  on  the  veranda. 

They  laid  the  sick  man  on  the  settle  and  Lieber 
started  to  strip  him  with  gentle,  deft  hands.  Kemp 
strode  forward  and  helped  but  Gerry  stood  by,  power- 
less to  move.  He  had  recognized  Alan,  the  man  he 
had  sworn  to  break  if  ever  he  met  him.  Somebody  else 
had  broken  Alan,  terribly,  pitilessly.  Gerry's  eyes 
shrank  from  the  sight.  A  lump  came  into  his  throat. 
Alan  was  dead.  Alan  with  whom  he  had  wandered 
barefoot  through  those  quiet  lanes  of  home,  with  whom 
he  had  fished  and  swum,  and  once  had  fought.  What 
a  little  fury  Alan  had  been  in  that  boys'  battle !  It  had 


HOME  219 

• 

not  been  fought  to  a  finish.  On  one  impulse  they  had 
stopped  and  looked  at  each  other  and  turned  away, 
ashamed  to  shake  hands. 

Lieber,  once  heavy,  florid  and  clumsy,  was  trans- 
formed. He  worked  quickly  with  sure  hands.  The 
body  lay  stripped  on  the  settle.  Under  it  still  lay  the 
hammock  and  dusty  blankets.  The  pillows  and  a 
board  had  been  tossed  on  the  floor.  Lieber  examined 
his  patient  minutely,  without  haste.  The  spleen  was 
frightfully  distended  and  pushed  out  across  the  abdo- 
men. He  could  feel  its  hard,  unyielding  margins. 
The  feet  were  swollen.  The  face  was  yellow  with  the 
sickly  gray-yellow  of  molded  straw.  Coma  had  set  in. 

Lieber  dragged  a  great  medicine  chest  out  from  his 
room.  With  alcohol  he  rapidly  washed  out  the  dust- 
filled  nostrils  of  the  stricken  man  and  bathed  the  face 
and  then  the  limbs  and  body.  Then  he  took  out  a 
hypodermic  syringe  and  a  graduated  glass.  In  the 
glass  he  dissolved  a  powder  and  with  steady  hands  added 
measured  drops  of  a  liquid  of  faint  amber  hue. 

Gerry  found  his  tongue.     "  What  is  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Quinine  and  arsenic,"  said  Lieber  shortly. 

"  Arsenic  ?     Is  n't  that  dangerous  ?  "  said  Gerry. 

Lieber  glanced  at  him.  "It  will  probably  kill 
him." 

"Then  why  —  why— "  protested  Gerry.  A  great 
desire  to  protect  what  was  left  of  Alan  had  come  over 
him. 

"Why?"  said  Lieber  dryly,  "I'll  tell  you,  Mr. 
Lansing.  Because  it  is  less  cowardly  to  kill  a  man  than 
to  let  him  die." 


220  HOME 

He  mixed  the  solution  in  the  syringe  and  then,  grasp- 
ing Alan's  thin  arm,  he  pressed  it  until  the  veins  came 
out  in  a  swelling  network.  "  Hold  his  arm  like  that," 
he  commanded  Kemp.  Kemp  clutched  the  arm.  The 
bones  seemed  to  bend  to  the  grip.  Lieber  chose  a 
swollen  vein  and  pierced  it  with  the  needle.  He 
forced  the  dose  into  the  blood.  "  There,"  he  said  with 
a  smile  to  Gerry,  "  that  'a  what 's  known  as  an  intra- 
venous administration  of  quinine  and  arsenic.  If  an- 
other paroxysm  hits  him  he  's  done  for  but  we  '11  know 
all  about  that  in  forty-eight  hours'  time."  ( 

He  went  into  the  house  and  brought  out  clean  sheets, 
soft  woolen  blankets,  pillows,  and  pillow-slips.  Kemp 
had  never  seen  such  linen;  Gerry  had  almost  forgotten 
the  feel  of  it.  Gerry  came  to  life.  With  one  hand 
under  Alan's  shoulders  and  another  under  his  hips,  he 
lifted  him  as  though  he  were  an  empty  shell,  while  Kemp 
and  Lieber  drew  out  the  dust-caked  blankets  and  ham- 
mock and  spread  first  a  cane  mat  over  the  settle  and 
then  a  blanket  and,  on  top  of  that,  a  sheet.  The  touch 
of  Alan's  dry,  crackling  skin  seemed  to  Gerry  to  be 
burning  his  hands.  "  It  is  as  though  there  were  fire 
in  him,"  he  said  to  Lieber. 

Lieber  looked  at  his  patient  with  an  all-seeing  eye. 
He  paused  before  covering  him  up.  "  That 's  it,"  he 
said.  "  There  's  fire  in  him  —  the  worst  kind  —  and 
he  's  been  playing  with  it,  just  tickling  it  with  stale 
quinine."  His  eye  ran  rapidly  over  the  thin  body.  "  I 
said  the  dose  I  gave  him  would  probably  kill  him  but 
I  've  changed  my  mind.  I  'm  betting  the  other  way, 
now  I  really  look  at  him.  There  's  no  flesh  on  him, 


HOME  221 

but  he  does  n't  look  like  a  skeleton.  Why  ?  Because  of 
the  sinews  and  bones  of  him  —  they  're  perfect.  Look 
at  the  way  the  sinews  hold  his  neck  and  the  way  the 
neck  carries  the  sinews.  Look  at  the  flat  bulge  of  his 
ribs  and  the  breadth  of  his  shoulders  over  the  hips. 
That  means  heart  and  lungs  and  vitals.  That  man's 
been  a  fighter  and,  unless  I  'm  a  bigger  fool  than  I  was 
yesterday,  he  's  a  fighter  yet." 

"  Cover  him  up,  for  God's  sake,"  said  Gerry. 

Lieber  dropped  the  sheet  and  went  off  to  the  kitchen. 
Gerry  and  Kemp  covered  the  stripped  body  and  tucked 
many  blankets  over  it.  Lieber  came  back  and  took  off 
half  the  blankets.  "  Must  n't  tire  him  with  weight," 
he  explained.  "  If  he  's  going  to  sweat,  he  '11  sweat  all 
right.  Malaria  —  malignant  fever  —  is  the  tiredest 
disease  in  the  world.  When  they  get  too  tired  to 
breathe,  that 's  the  end."  He  took  hold  of  Alan's 
wrist.  "  To  feel  his  pulse,  you  'd  say  he  was  dead 
now." 

"  'Bout  time  we  was  startin',"  remarked  Kemp  with 
his  eyes  toward  the  declining  sun. 

Gerry's  first  impulse  was  to  say  he  would  stay  but 
he  suddenly  remembered  Margarita.  How  far  away 
from  life  she  seemed!  Alan  and  Margarita  could  not 
crowd  into  one  day  or  even  into  one  world  —  it  was 
against  the  order  of  things.  But  facts  do  not  stand  on 
the  order  of  their  coming,  they  simply  come  and  against 
the  protest  of  man's  will  they  present  his  fate; 
against  the  cry  of  the  troubled  and  displaced  soul  they 
voice  the  eternal  j'y  suis,  j'y  reste  of  inanimate  things. 
One  cannot  go  around  a  fact.  One  must  either  break 


222  HOME 

one's  head  against  it  or  swallow  it  and  let  it  take  its 
course  through  the  mental  gorge. 

Gerry  longed  to  stay  by  Alan's  side  and  through  his 
returning  consciousness,  as  through  a  magnifying  glass, 
gaze  upon  the  world  he  had  forsworn  —  the  heritage 
he  had  abandoned.  But  the  fact  of  Margarita  and  her 
boy  suddenly  declared  itself  —  demanded  digestion  — 
and  Gerry  turned  his  back  on  Alan.  He  mounted  and 
with  the  silent  Kemp  reversed  the  drive  they  had  made 
together  months  before. 

Lieber  did  not  go  with  them.  When  he  had  seen 
them  off,  he  busied  himself  giving  orders  for  the  tidying 
up  of  the  veranda,  the  feeding  of  Alan's  convoy,  beast 
and  man,  and  the  preparation  of  a  room  for  the  self- 
invited  guest.  From  the  pile  of  dusty  pillows  a  servant 
was  picking  up,  fell  a  board.  Lieber  glanced  down  at 
it.  Words  were  cut  roughly  but  clearly  into  its  surface. 
They  spoke  to  him.  They  held  his  eyes.  He  stooped 
laboriously  and  picked  up  the  board.  He  took  it  into 
his  private  room,  propped  it  up  against  some  books  on 
the  table  and  sat  before  it  with  his  face  dropped  in  his 
hands.  To  his  closed  eyes  the  words  seemed  no  longer 
carved  in  wood.  Against  the  inward  darkness  of  his 
brain  they  shone  out  in  points  of  light.  He  could  not 
shut  them  out.  "  Qui  de  nous  n'a  pas  eu  so,  terre 
promise,  son  jour  d'extase,  ei  sa  fin  en  exilf  " 

At  sundown  Lieber  came  out  to  his  patient.  He  had 
him  moved,  settle  and  all,  into  a  room  whose  windows 
opened  upon  the  veranda.  Lieber  sat  beside  him  and 
nursed  him  through  the  long  hot  night.  To  the  deft- 
ness of  his  hand  had  been  added  tenderness  and  into  his 


HOME  223 

face  a  new  determination  had  come  —  a  resolve  to  win 
Alan's  battle  for  him  whatever  the  odds. 

Gerry  did  not  sleep  that  night.  He  lay  on  the  little 
extra  bed  he  had  made  upon  his  son's  arrival  and, 
propping  himself  on  his  elbow,  gazed  around  him.  The 
moon  shone  through  great  cracks  in  the  warped  shutters 
and  filled  the  vast  room  with  a  glow  that,  as  his  eyes 
dilated,  became  a  revealing  light.  In  one  corner  was 
an  iron  wash-stand  with  its  vessels  of  coarse  enameled 
metal,  a  recent  purchase.  In  another  corner  stood  a 
grotesque  clothes-rack.  It  looked  like  a  young  pine 
with  irregular  branches  and  top  lopped  off.  On  the 
stubs  or  pegs,  hung  his  clothes  and  Margarita's  and,  on 
the  lowest  peg  of  all,  the  Lilliputian  garments  of  the 
Man.  The  floor  was  bare  and  rolling,  for  the  boards, 
rough-hewn  from  hard-wood  giants  of  the  forest,  had 
warped  steadily  through  many  years.  In  its  center 
stood  the  great  rustic  bed  that  Gerry  had  made  from  the 
twisted  limbs  of  trees  and  Bonifacio  had  plaited  with 
thongs.  By  raising  himself  to  the  full  length  of  his 
arm  Gerry  could  see  Margarita  lying  uncovered  on  the 
coarse,  yellowish  homespun.  On  her  bare  brown  arm 
lay  the  black  head  of  her  son. 

Gerry  shuddered  at  the  nearness  —  the  familiarity 

—  of  everything.     The  seams  of  elementary  life  stood 
out  brutally.     For  the  first  time  he  saw  them.     From 
the  touch  of  the  coarse  homespun  that  covered  him,  his 
mind  went  back  to  the  feel  of  Lieber's  fine  linen  and 
from  that  it  poised  on  Alan  and  then  flew  back  to  Alix 

—  Alix  who,  seen  through  the  years,  became  doubly 
ethereal  and  flower-like.     Where  was  Alix  ?     What  had 


224  HOME 

Alan  done  with  her?  He  must  ask  him.  That,  at 
least,  he  must  know.  But  before  he  could  ask  he 
must  decide  about  Margarita  and  steel  himself  to  his 
purpose.  He  thought  of  the  long  still  days  at  Fazenda 
Flores  before  Alan  had  come  to  Lieber's  —  the  struggle 
and  the  reward  that  had  been  his  —  and  the  firmness  in 
him,  the  steadfastness  that  had  led  Alan  to  name  him 
The  Rock,  rose  up  in  defense  of  Margarita  and  her 
son. 

Gerry  was  up  early.  As  he  was  saddling  True  Blue, 
Margarita  came  on  to  the  veranda.  "  Where  art  thou 
going  ?  "  she  asked. 

Gerry  looked  up.  He  was  a  little  pale  from  the 
wakeful  night  and  there  were  slight  shadows  under  his 
eyes.  "  I  am  going  to  Lieber's.  There  is  a  sick  man 
there  —  he  is  dying  and  I  must  help.  He  is  my  fellow- 
countryman." 

Margarita's  eyes  searched  his  face.  Her  bosom  rose 
and  fell  rapidly.  "  Do  not  go,"  she  said,  and  Gerry 
started  at  the  passion  in  her  voice. 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  "  I  must  see  this  man 
before  he  dies,"  he  said,  half  to  himself. 

"  Ah,"  said  Margarita,  beating  with  her  little  brown 
fist  on  the  veranda  pillar,  "  I  know.  I  know.  It  is 
not  death  that  calls  thee.  Why  should  one  turn  from 
things  that  live  to  fondle  death?  It  is  the  stranger 
thou  wouldst  see." 

Gerry  dropped  the  reins  of  his  horse  and,  hurrying 
up  the  steps,  took  Margarita  in  his  arms,  "  And  why 
not,  my  beloved  ?  Why  does  thy  heart  beat  so  ?  It  is 


HOME  225 

not  a  woman  I  go  to  see,  but  a  man.  Shall  I  not  talk 
with  a  man  that  is  at  death's  door  2  " 

"  Let  him  but  die,"  pleaded  Margarita ;  "  let  him  but 
die  and  thou  shalt  go  and  bury  him.  See,  the  day  is 
beautiful.  There  is  a  cloud.  Perhaps  it  will  rain. 
Come,  my  Geree,  let  us  go  down  to  the  river  and  swim. 
We  will  take  the  Man.  He  shall  sit  on  the  bank  and  the 
river  will  play  with  his  bare  toes.  He  will  laugh." 

Gerry  smiled  but  shook  his  head.  "  To-morrow,  my 
beloved,  to-morrow  we  shall  play  with  the  Man  and  the 
river." 

Margarita's  arms  fell  to  her  sides  in  pathetic  sur- 
render. She  watched  Gerry  mount  and  ride  slowly  up 
the  slope  to  the  bridge  where  Kemp  awaited  him.  Then 
she  went  back  to  the  veranda  steps,  sat  down  and  wept 
with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands.  She  did  not  know 
why  she  wept  but  she  knew  she  wept  for  things  that 
were  going  to  be.  The  Man  came  toddling  out  to  her, 
fell  on  her  shoulders,  dragged  her  hands  from  her  face 
and  crowed  with  delight.  It  was  an  old  game,  played 
often  before,  except  that  this  time  when  the  game  was 
over  his  little  fists  were  wet. 


CHAPTEE  XXXI 

ALAN  was  struggling  back  from  coma.  He  was 
passing  through  what  Lieber  termed  to  himself 
a  stage  of  reflex  cerebral  phenomena.  He  muttered, 
he  talked,  but  the  words  were  rendered  unintelligible  by 
his  thick  dry  tongue.  Lieber  listened.  When  his 
patient  could  speak  clearly,  he  would  give  him  broth 
even  if  he  had  to  rouse  him.  But  before  Alan  could 
speak  clearly,  he  awoke.  Lieber  found  his  sunken  eyes, 
the  pupils  appearing  almost  concave,  fixed  on  him  with 
a  seeing  gaze.  It  was  like  resurrection.  A  spirit  had 
come  down  upon  the  body.  Eye  to  eye,  mouth  to  mouth, 
heart  to  heart,  it  had  given  sight,  breath,  life. 

The  eyes  closed.  Lieber  hurried  away.  From  the 
kitchen  he  brought  a  bowl  of  broth.  It  was  steaming 
and  filled  the  room  with  an  odor  of  rich  essence.  It 
was  in  itself  a  concentration  of  life.  Lieber  held  Alan's 
unwilling  head  on  his  left  arm  and  with  a  small  spoon 
carried  drops  of  the  broth  to  his  dry  lips.  At  first 
Alan  scarcely  swallowed  them.  They  stayed  in  his 
mouth  or  trickled  unaided  down  his  throat.  But 
gradually  his  tongue  softened.  He  could  feel  the  con- 
traction of  his  throat  giving  way  to  the  oils  of  the  broth. 
He  tried  to  reach  a  weak  hand  towards  the  bowl. 
Lieber  smiled  and  fed  him  with  a  larger  spoon.  The 

bowl  was  emptied.     Alan  sank  back  into  the  pillows. 

226 


HOME  227 

His  eyes  wandered  wistfully  over  the  bare  walls,  the 
high  tiling  of  the  strange  room.  "<I  would  have, 
great  gods !  but  one  short  hour  of  native  air  —  let 
me  but  die  at  home,' '  he  murmured  and  Lieber 
heard. 

The  words  clutched  at  his  own  heart  but  he  answered 
cheerfully,  "  You  shall,  my  boy,  you  shall  die  at  home 
if  you  like,  but  you  're  going  to  have  years  to  think  it 
over.  Sleep,  that 's  the  word.  And  sleep  it  is,"  he 
added  to  himself  as  Alan's  eyes  closed  and  his  chest 
began  to  rise  and  fall  in  healthy  breathing.  Lieber 
held  his  wrist.  The  pulse  was  taking  on  strength. 

Alan  was  still  sleeping  when  Gerry  arrived.  Lieber 
looked  up,  surprised.  "  You  've  come  all  the  way  back 
from  Fazenda  Flores  ?  " 

Gerry  nodded.     "  How   is   he  ?     Has   he   come  to, 

yet?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lieber  in  a  low,  modulated  tone.  "  He 
came  to,  all  right.  But  the  fight 's  not  over  yet.  Fever 
goes  and  comes,  you  know.  If  another  paroxysm  seizes 
him,  he  '11  not  have  the  strength  to  pull  through.  It 's 
a  question  of  hours  now." 

"  You  've  been  up  all  night,"  said  Gerry.  "  Go  and 
lie  down  for  a  while.  I  '11  call  you  if  anything 
happens." 

Lieber  rose  reluctantly.  "Don't  fail  to  call  me," 
he  said.  "  I  '11  leave  my  door  open." 

Gerry  sat  down  in  a  chair  beside  the  settle.  He 
had  not  known  how  tired  he  was  himself.  Soon  he 
drowsed.  His  head  fell  forward  on  his  chest.  Sleep 
came  to  him  and  then  a  great  trouble  came  to  his  sleep. 


228  HOME 

He  roused  himself  from  a  nightmare  and,  suddenly 
wide  awake,  found  Alan's  eyes  fixed  on  his  face. 

"  You,"  murmured  Alan. 

Gerry  did  not  answer.  His  face  became  a  mask.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  only  Alan's  eyes  were  alive,  and  to 
Alan  that  Gerry  had  projected  his  spirit  to  his  bedside 
to  watch  him  die. 

Alan  tried  to  smile  in  defiance.  "  Can't  you  speak  ?  " 
he  whispered  hoarsely. 

Gerry  leaned  forward.  The  question  he  had  to  ask 
was  stronger  than  he.  It  forced  its  way  through  his 
lips.  "  Alan,  what  did  you  do  with  her  ?  Tell  me  that 
and  I  '11  go  away." 

A  troubled  look  came  into  Alan's  thin  face.  He 
frowned.  "  Do  with  her  ?  Do  with  whom  ?  " 

"  Alan,"  said  Gerry,  his  suppressed  voice  trembling, 
"  you  know.  With  Alix." 

"  Oh,"  said  Alan,  still  struggling  on  the  verge  of 
consciousness.  "  I  remember.  I  did  nothing  with  her. 
She  would  n't  go  with  me." 

"  Alan,"  groaned  Gerry.  "  I  saw  you.  I  saw  you 
and  Alix  on  the  train." 

The  frown  was  gone  from  Alan's  forehead.  He  felt 
sleep  coming  back  to  him  and  he  was  glad.  "  Yes,"  he 
said,  "  she  was  on  the  train  with  me.  I  remember. 
She  jumped  off.  A  baggageman  —  caught  her."  He 
dropped  off  to  sleep  again. 

Lieber  stepped  catlike  across  the  floor.  He  caught 
Gerry  by  one  ear  and  with  the  other  hand  over  his 
mouth,  led  him  out  of  the  room.  Gerry  went  tamely. 
When  they  were  on  the  veranda  Lieber  looked  at  him. 


HOME  229 

"  So,"  he  said,  his  blue  eyes  blazing,  "  you  only  want  to 
kill  him." 

"  No,"  said  Gerry,  dazed,  "  not  now." 

"  Mr.  Lansing,"  said  Lieber,  "  you  get  out  of  here. 
We  '11  settle  this  business  some  other  time." 

Gerry's  lip  trembled.  "  You  're  right,  Lieber,"  he 
said.  "  You  're  right,  only  you  don't  know  it  all.  That 
chap  in  there  —  we  were  boys  together.  He  ran  away 
with  my  wife.  That 's  why  — "  Gerry  suddenly 
stopped.  Alix  had  not  run  away.  She  had  jumped  off 
the  train.  Where  was  she  then  ?  What  had  she  done 
through  the  years  he  had  been  away?  Why  had  she 
jumped  off  the  train  ?  He  struck  his  hand  to  his  head 
and  stumbled  off  the  veranda. 

Lieber's  anger  died  in  him,  but  he  turned  and  went 
back  to  Alan. 

Two  hours  later  he  came  out  again  to  find  Gerry 
crouched  on  the  veranda.  The  spirit  had  gone  out  of 
him  but  he  turned  on  Lieber  with  a  determination  in 
his  tired  eyes.  "  You  told  me  to  get  out  and  I  have  n't. 
There  are  things  I  've  got  to  know.  I  '11  wait." 

"  I  spoke  in  haste,  Mr.  Lansing,"  said  Lieber.  "  I 
want  you  should  forgive  me.  You  are  all  in,  too. 
Come  with  me." 

He  led  him  into  his  own  room,  made  him  lie  down, 
and  closed  the  shutters.  Gerry  threw  himself  across 
the  bed,  arms  outstretched,  face  down.  Lieber  slipped 
out  and  noiselessly  shut  the  door.  Gerry  lay  exhausted. 
He  could  not  think  any  more.  A  great  weight  lay  on 
his  brain.  The  ten  minutes'  doze  in  the  chair  at  Alan's 
bedside  had  not  been  rest,  but  a  nightmare.  Presently 


230  HOME 

he  fell  into  sleep,  a  deep  sleep  that  was  all  unconscious- 
ness. 

It  was  almost  night  when  he  awoke  and  with  the 
awakening,  the  weight  settled  back  on  his  brain,  only 
now  he  had  the  strength  to  think  in  spite  of  it.  He 
got  up  and  went  out  in  search  of  Lieber.  Lieber  heard 
him  and  came  out  into  the  hall.  Gerry  nodded  towards 
Alan's  room.  "  It 's  all  right,  Mr.  Lansing.  He  must 
have  a  solid  mind.  Your  talk  did  n't  excite  him  — 
did  n't  even  disturb  his  sleep.  He  's  on  the  road  up  — 
weak,  a  baby,  but  he  's  started  life  again.  He  's  asked 
for  you  twice.  Seems  to  have  something  he  's  got  to 
get  off  his  chest  to  you.  You  'd  better  go  in." 

Gerry  sat  down  once  more  beside  Alan.  The  ques- 
tions he  must  ask  crowded  to  his  lips  but  he  forced  them 
back.  He  tested  his  strength  with  resolutions  and  held 
them.  It  was  his  way  of  reassuring  himself.  He 
wanted  to  feel  his  firmness  rising  in  him  to  meet  the 
struggle  he  felt  must  come  when  Alan  spoke. 

Alan  knew  he  was  there.  He  saw  him  through  half- 
closed  eyes  but,  more  than  that,  he  felt  him.  His 
brows  puckered  in  a  frown.  It  was  still  hard  to  use 
words.  "  Gerry,  last  night  I  wanted  to  tell  you  more 
only  I  could  n't.  I  had  to  sleep.  Alix  did  n't  go  with 
me.  She  only  came  to  the  train.  When  I  kissed  her 
she  woke  up  and  found  she  was  n't  —  carnal  after  all. 
She  went  back  home.  You  did  n't  turn  up.  You  never 
turned  up.  They  traced  you  to  a  river,  an  empty  canoe 
—  pajamas  —  you  know."  He  stopped  and  sighed  as 
though  his  task  were  over. 

The  veins  on  Gerry's  forehead  stood  out  in  knots. 


HOME  231 

His  chin  rested  on  his  clenched  hands,  his  elbows  on 
his  knees.  "Alan,"  he  said,  "where  is  Alix  now? 
What  has  she  done  ?  " 

Alan  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  him.  "  She  is 
waiting.  She  has  always  waited  for  you  to  come  back. 
She  would  not'  believe  you  were  dead,  because  of  the 
boy." 

"  The  boy !  "  groaned  Gerry.     "  What  boy  ?  " 

"  Yours,"  said  Alan.  "  He  is  a  great  boy.  There  is 
a  new  Alix  since  he  came.  She  is  as  far  from  me  and 
what  she  was  as  the  stars.  She  is  a  steady  star.  But 
it 's  all  right  now.  You  '11  go  back  to  her." 

"  I  can't,"  whispered  Gerry  hoarsely,  more  to  him- 
self than  to  Alan.  "  I  've  got  a  wife  here.  I  Ve  got 
a  child  here.  To  me  he  is  my  first-born." 

Alan's  eyes  opened,  this  time  in  wonder.  A  twisted 
smile  came  to  his  lips.  "  You !  "  he  said.  "  You !  " 
and  then  the  smile  changed  to  a  faint  disgust.  He 
turned  his  head  on  the  pillow  away  from  Gerry  and 
slept. 

The  next  morning  found  Gerry  still  at  Lieber*s.  He 
knew  he  must  go  back  to  Fazenda  Flores  in  the  end 
but  just  now  his  soul  was  too  raw.  He  hung  around 
waiting  for  Alan  to  wake  up.  There  was  only  one 
way  to  soothe  the  pain  of  his  wound  and  that  was  to 
add  vinegar  to  it.  He  wanted  to  hear  more  and  tell 
more.  It  seemed  a  terrible  affront  that  Alan  —  Alan 
of  all  people  —  should  sit  in  judgment  over  him.  Alan 
awoke  at  last  to  a  ravenous  appetite  and  a  desire  for 
the  open.  They  moved  him,  settle  and  all,  out  upon 


232  HOME 

the  veranda.  "  What  a  murderous  day !  "  he  said,  his 
eyes  turning,  blinded  from  the  blaze  of  sun,  to  rest  in 
the  shady  nooks  of  the  veranda. 

Outside,  the  heavenly  bowl  of  blue  was  virgin  of 
clouds.  It  stretched  and  domed  in  a  sphered  eternity 
of  emptiness.  Through  its  depressing  void  the  sun 
swam  slowly,  pitilessly,  as  though  it  were  loth  to  mark 
the  passing  minutes.  The  whole  earth  baked.  Strong 
trees  wilted  and  turned  up  the  wrong  sides  of  their 
leaves  on  the  sea  of  heat  like  dying  fish  turning  up 
their  white  bellies  at  the  last  gasp.  Not  a  breath  of 
air  stirred.  Heat  rose  from  the  ground  in  an  un- 
broken, visible  wave.  "  My  God,"  said  Alan,  gazing 
with  wistful,  far-seeing  eyes  beyond  the  familiar,  re- 
pellent scene,  " '  a  homeward  fever  parches  up  my 
tongue.' '  There  was  such  an  agony  of  longing  in  the 
words  that  Gerry  was  frightened.  He  looked  ques- 
tioningly  at  Lieber. 

"  No,"  said  Lieber,  "  he 's  not  dying.  He  was  dy- 
ing, but  he 's  changed  his  mind.  He 's  going  to  go 
home  instead." 

"  I  believe  he  's  right,  Gerry,"  said  Alan  with  a  faint 
smile.  "  But  I  did  n't  change  my  mind.  He  did  it 
for  me.  He  's  in  line  for  a  life-saving  medal.  Lie- 
ber 's  all  right."  He  stopped,  tired  out. 

Lieber  began  to  talk  to  Gerry.  "  How  's  the  water 
in  the  ditch,  Mr.  Lansing  ?  " 

"  Mighty  low,"  said  Gerry.  He  spoke  almost  ab- 
sent-mindedly. For  the  first  time  in  months  the  ditch 
was  far  from  his  thoughts. 

"  It 's  hard  luck,"  said  Lieber.     "  The  river  's  never 


HOME  233 

been  so  low  before  —  not  in  the  memory  of  man.  We 
do  not  hear  the  falls  any  more.  The  river  is  asleep. 
Do  you  want  me  to  send  my  men  down  again  ? " 

"  It 's  no  use,"  said  Gerry.  "  I  don't  dare  deepen 
the  ditch  any  more.  It  ?s  way  below  the  normal  level 
now." 

Alan  stirred.     "  What 's  that  about  a  ditch  ? " 

In  unhurried  phrases  and  a  low  voice  Lieber  told 
him  the  history  of  Fazenda  Flores  since  Gerry's  ad- 
vent and  of  the  great  part  the  ditch  had  played  in  bring- 
ing resurrection  to  the  abandoned  plantation  and  life 
to  the  neighboring  stock. 

Alan  cast  a  curious  glance  at  Gerry.  "  Dangerous 
business,"  he  said,  "  fooling  with  the  normal  level  in 
flood  country." 

Lieber  nodded  and  went  on.  He  told  his  tale  well. 
He  had  seen  more  than  Gerry  could  have  put  into 
words.  Gerry  listened  for  a  while  but  he  soon  wearied. 
What  had  all  that  to  do  with  him  now  ?  He  wandered 
off  and  started  to  saddle  True  Blue.  He  must  get 
away  from  Alan.  Alan  was  drawing  him  but  he  was 
bound  in  chains.  He  must  remember  that.  Then, 
too,  what  Alan  had  said  about  fooling  with  the  normal 
level  worried  him.  He  must  go  back  and  station  a 
guard  at  the  great  sluice-gate. 

A  sudden  puff  of  air,  then  a  breeze,  then  a  gale, 
swept  down  on  Lieber's  from  the  southwest.  The  wind 
was  hot,  a  furnace  blast  from  the  torrid  wilderness. 
It  carried  with  it  swirls  of  dust,  light  dry  sticks,  and 
finally,  small  pebbles  that  hurtled  along  the  ground. 
Gerry  and  his  horse  sought  shelter  by  the  house. 


234  HOME 

Herders  came  running  out  from  their  quarters  and 
gathered  in  front  of  the  veranda.  The  wind  suddenly 
turned  cold,  dropped  and  ceased.  The  dust  settled. 
The  sun  blazed  as  before.  There  was  not  a  cloud  in 
the  sky.  The  herders  all  looked  at  Lieber.  They  did 
not  talk.  They  were  waiting. 

Lieber  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Somewhere,"  he 
said  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  to  the  southwest,  "  there 
has  been  rain  and  hail  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Tem- 
perature fell  and  drove  the  hot  air  off  the  desert."  He 
told  the  men  but  they  did  not  go  away.  They  stood 
around,  their  eyes  sweeping  the  horizon  to  the  south- 
west. At  last  one  of  them  grunted.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  on  a  distant  pillar  of  dust.  It  came  towards 
them.  Lieber  used  his  field-glasses.  Without  taking 
them  from  his  eyes  he  spoke.  "  It 's  a  man,  riding. 
Looks  like  he 's  riding  for  life.  Something  is  up. 
He 's  riding  to  kill  his  horse." 

As  the  man  approached,  a  dull  rumbling  filled  the 
ears  of  the  watchers.  So  gradual  was  its  crescendo  that 
they  did  not  notice  it.  The  rider  spurred  and  beat 
his  horse  to  a  final  effort.  They  could  see  he  was 
shouting.  He  drew  nearer  and  they  heard  him, 
"  Mood !  Flood !  "  Then  they  noticed  the  rumbling. 
It  became  a  roar.  Far  away  on  the  horizon  rose  a 
white,  advancing  mist.  The  rider  rolled  off  his  stag- 
gering horse.  "  The  flood,"  he  gasped.  "  Never  be- 
fore has  there  been  such  a  flood." 

Before  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth  there  was 
a  frenzied  rattle  of  hoofs  and  Gerry  on  True  Blue  tore 
off  in  a  mad  gallop  down  the  trail  towards  Fazenda 


HOME  235 

Flores.  Almost  at  his  heels  followed  the  first  mounted 
of  the  herders,  riding  all  they  knew  to  cut  across  to 
Piranhas  ahead  of  the  wall  of  water. 

Lieber's  eyes  followed  Gerry's  flight.  Then  he 
turned  them  on  Alan.  "  That  hollow  down  there,"  he 
said,  "  will  be  turned  into  a  rushing  river  in  half  an 
hour  —  perhaps  less.  We  're  just  safe  here,  and  that 's 
all.  You  see  Mr.  Lansing  ?  He 's  the  spot  furthest 
down  the  trail.  I  'm  thinking  we  '11  never  see  him 
again." 

A  faint  flush  came  into  Alan's  cheeks.  It  was  a 
flush  of  pride  —  pride  in  Gerry.  Gerry  had  not  hesi- 
tated. He  had  not  ridden  off  like  a  laggard.  Even 
now  they  could  see  that  he  was  riding  for  life  —  rid- 
ing with  all  his  might  for  the  lives  that  shackled  him. 


CHAPTEK  XXXII 

GERRY  had  never  ridden  a  horse  to  death  before. 
When  True  Blue  first  staggered  he  put  spurs 
to  him  and  laid  on  his  quirt  right  and  left. 

The  roar  of  the  river  was  so  loud  that  he  could  not 
tell  if  he  had  really  heaten  the  flood  or  not,  though  he 
could  see  just  before  him  the  long,  snaky  ridge  of  the 
main  ditch  banks.  He  must  get  on. 

But  True  Blue  only  came  to  a  staggering  stop  un- 
der the  quirt.  With  his  forefeet  he  still  marked  time 
as  though  with  them  he  would  drag  his  heavy  body  and 
master  one  step  nearer  home.  From  his  loins  back  he 
was  paralyzed. 

With  a  last  desperate  effort  he  straddled  his  fore 
legs  but  he  could  not  brace  himself  against  the  back- 
ward sag  of  dead  weight.  Gerry  felt  him  sinking  be- 
neath him  and  suddenly  found  himself  standing  over 
his  prostrate  horse.  Of  True  Blue,  his  forefeet  out- 
stretched, his  head  and  breast  still  held  high,  there  was 
left  only  a  great  spirit  chained  to  a  fallen  and  dying 
body. 

A  cry  escaped  Gerry's  lips  —  a  cry  of  horror  at  what 
he  had  done.  Then  he  remembered  why  he  had  done 
it  and  ran  not  for  the  sluice-gate  but  for  the  bridge. 
As  he  reached  it  the  roar  became  deafening.  There 
was  a  splintering,  crackling  sound  that,  measured  by 

236 


HOME  237 

the  great  commotion,  seemed  like  the  tinkle  of  a  tiny 
bell.  But  there  was  something  in  the  sound  that 
called  to  his  brain.  He  cast  a  glance  over  his  shoulder. 
The  monster  beams  of  his  sluice-gate,  hurled,  splintered 
into  the  air,  were  still  hanging  against  the  blue  sky. 
Under  them  surged  an  angry  white  wall  of  racing 
water.  Even  as  he  started  to  run  down  the  long  slope 
to  the  house  Gerry  thought  with  a  great  relief  that  if 
the  gate  had  been  closed  it  would  have  gone  even  so, 
like  match-wood. 

Below  him  Fazenda  Elores  lay  peaceful,  still,  under 
the  blazing  sun.  The  cotton  was  a  little  wilted  but 
high  and  strong,  the  cane  stunted  but  alive.  Only  in 
the  pasture  bottoms  the  stock  had  gathered  in  frightened 
clumps.  Their  instinct  had  told  them  that  danger 
hovered  near.  Suddenly  from  the  quiet  house  burst 
Margarita  carrying  her  son  on  one  arm.  She  had  seen 
Gerry  from  a  window.  While  the  others  watched  the 
rising  river,  and  now  this  terrifying  torrent  bursting 
down  upon  them  from  above,  she  had  slipped  out  to 
run  to  him. 

The  house  at  Fazenda  Flores  stood  on  a  domed 
mound.  Behind  the  mound  was  a  slight  hollow  before 
the  steady  rise  to  the  bridge  began.  Gerry  caught  sight 
of  Margarita  as  she  ran  down  towards  this  hollow. 
Terrified,  he  cast  a  glance  at  the  descending  flood  and 
his  eye  measured  its  pace  against  hers.  "  Go  back !  • 
he  shouted  with  all  the  strength  of  his  lungs  and  waved 
his  arms.  It  was  as  though  he  had  not  spoken. 
Through  the  din  and  roar  of  the  flood  the  sound  of  the 
words  scarcely  reached  his  own  ears. 


238  HOME 

At  the  very  bottom  of  the  hollow  Margarita  felt  that 
she  was  stepping  in  water.  She  took  her  eyes  from 
Gerry  who  she  thought  was  beckoning  to  her  and 
looked  down.  A  hurrying  rivulet  whose  swift  flow 
carried  it  before  the  churning  crest  of  the  flood,  tugged 
at  her  ankles.  She  looked  up  toward  the  thundering 
wall  of  oncoming  water  and  knew  that  she  was  lost. 

She  stopped  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  Gerry  who  was 
plunging  down  the  slope  in  a  mad  effort  to  reach  her. 
She  called  to  him  but  she  knew  he  could  not  hear  her. 
With  arms  stretched  to  their  highest  she  held  up  the 
Man.  The  Man  was  not  frightened.  His  black  eyes 
were  fixed  on  his  running  father.  Margarita  could 
feel  him  gurgling  with  joy  in  the  new  game.  Then 
suddenly  he  cried  out.  It  was  a  wail  of  fright.  The 
wail  was  cut  short.  Broken  in  two,  it  rang  terribly 
in  her  ears  as  she  went  down. 

The  water  had  felled  Margarita  and  the  Man. 
Gerry  saw  them  flung  down  against  the  ground  and 
then  high  on  the  crest  of  the  wave.  They  became  sud- 
denly a  twirling,  sodden  mass,  inanimate  save  for  the 
fling  of  a  loose  limb  into  clearer  view  against  the  blue 
sky  or  the  uncoiling  of  long  black  hair  on  the  seething 
water. 

Gerry  reached  the  torrent.  Margarita  and  the  Man 
had  already  been  whirled  far  towards  the  great  river. 
He  plunged  into  the  flood.  The  water  was  thick  with 
earth,  sticks,  up-rooted  plants  and  debris  of  every  sort. 
Conflicting,  swirling  currents  tugged  at  heavy  stones, 
rolled  them  along  and  sometimes  even  tossed  one  to 
the  surface. 


HOME  239 

Gerry's  struggling  body  was  hurled  hither  and 
thither.  A  stray  current  shot  him  to  the  surface  but, 
before  he  could  take  breath,  other  currents  sucked  him 
down  and  dragged  him  along  the  rough  surface  of  the 
crumbling  soil.  He  felt  as  though  he  were  being  torn 
limb  from  limb. 

Then  suddenly  he  was  cast  into  an  eddy  that  in  com- 
parison with  the  maelstrom,  was  almost  peaceful.  For 
an  instant  he  felt  like  one  who  awakes  from  a  terrible 
dream,  but  with  the  sigh  that  trembled  to  his  lips  came 
realization. 

From  head  to  toe  he  was  battered  and  bruised.  His 
cotton  clothes  were  in  tatters.  His  chest  heaved  in 
great,  spasmodic  gasps.  Breath  whistled  through  his 
wracked  lungs.  His  eyes  protruded.  His  head  ached 
till  it  seemed  on  the  verge  of  bursting.  But  to  his  mind 
pierced  a  thought  sharper  than  pain  —  the  thought  of 
Margarita  and  the  Man.  With  clenched  teeth  he 
struck  out  for  the  current. 

Far^  far  away  rose  a  dusty  line  of  mist.  It  marked 
the  head  of  the  flood  —  the  meeting  of  water  with  the 
accumulated  dust  of  rainless  months.  Gerry  recognized 
the  meaning  of  that  line.  Somewhere  there  in  the 
turmoil  of  the  first  rush  of  the  mad  flood  were  Mar- 
garita and  the  Man  —  what  was  left  of  them.  The 
distance  dismayed  him,  but  he  swam  on.  Then  he  felt 
the  fast  approaching  end  of  endurance.  A  sob  choked 
him. 

It  was  only  minutes  till  his  arms  refused  to  answer 
to  his  will.  They  moved  so  weakly  that  more  than 
once  his  gasping  mouth  sank  below  the  water.  He 


240  HOME 

swallowed  great  gulps  of  the  turgid  flood.  Then  an 
up-rooted  tree  brushed  by  him.  He  clutched  its 
branches. 

When  all  else  in  the  world  has  passed  from  a  man's 
brain  there  remains  the  life  instinct  —  the  will  to  fight 
for  the  last  minute  of  his  allotted  being.  The  life  in- 
stinct was  all  that  still  lived  in  Gerry.  It  urged  him 
to  a  last  effort.  He  dragged  his  body  upon  the  tree 
where  the  branches  forked  from  the  main  trunk.  Ut- 
terly exhausted  he  sank  into  their  embrace.  They  held 
him  as  though  in  a  cradle. 

The  rush  of  the  waters  began  to  slacken.  They 
stretched  out  over  the  valley  and  crept  up  its  sides. 
They  did  not  flow  so  much  now  as  rise.  The  valley 
became  a  moving  sea.  On  its  flowing  surface  beasts, 
fowls  and  reptiles  struggled,  mad-eyed,  for  life.  Here 
and  there  a  floated  carcass,  brought  down  from  far 
up  the  river,  blundered  blindly  through  the  living  and 
brought  screams  of  terror  from  the  swimming  horses, 
and  gasping  lows  from  the  struggling  cattle. 

From  the  middle  of  the  sea  rose  the  old  plantation 
house  still  high  and  dry  on  its  mound.  It  seemed  very 
tiny  —  a  toy  house  on  a  lonely  islet. 

A  great,  open,  white  umbrella  lined  with  green 
sailed  gaily  along.  It  caught  in  the  branches  of 
Gerry's  tree.  Up-rooted  cotton  bushes  floated  by,  and 
cane,  snapped  off,  sometimes  torn  up  in  whole  hills, 
banked  up  against  the  tree  and  formed  a  vast,  unstable 
island  toward  which  swam  the  deluded  stock. 

From  the  mouth  of  the  cleft  in  the  river  gorge  is- 
sued a  thundering  cataract.  It  had  burst  through  the 


HOME  241 

walls  of  the  ditch  and  even  unseated  a  section  of  the 
rocky  crag  against  which  the  sluice-gate  had  been  but- 
tressed. The  ditch  was  gone.  It  could  never  be  again, 
for  the  water  was  tearing  the  channel  of  the  cleft 
deeper  and  deeper.  The  turbid  flood  devoured  the  silt 
of  the  valley,  accumulated  since  man  was,  and  carried 
it,  seething,  out  towards  the  river.  The  valley  would 
be  left  naked,  stripped  of  the  source  of  life. 

Gerry's  tree  had  crawled  away  from  the  main  cur- 
rent. In  a  vast  eddy  it  approached  the  mound  where- 
on squatted  the  old  plantation  house.  Dona  Maria 
stood  at  the  edge  of  the  waters.  Her  two  hands  were 
clenched  and  held  above  her  gray  head.  Thin  wisps 
of  hair  hung  about  her  face.  Her  face  was  distorted. 
She  was  cursing  Gerry,  cursing  the  day  of  his  birth, 
the  day  of  his  coming,  the  day  he  had  opened  his  ditch. 
She  swept  her  arms  over  the  terrible  scene  and  called 
down  the  curse  of  all  the  ruin  and  death  on  his  head. 
But  Gerry  was  beyond  hearing.  In  all  the  world  there 
was  none  to  hear  the  old  woman.  She  stood  alone; 
about  her  the  silent  waters,  above  her  the  blazing  blue 
sky. 

The  tree  shot  out  of  the  eddy.  The  current,  the 
main  current  from  the  cleft,  caught  it  squarely  and 
swept  it  away.  It  suddenly  shook  its  long  trail  of  riff- 
raff and  turning  and  turning,  more  and  more  swiftly, 
swam  out  on  to  the  churning  bosom  of  the  great  river. 

The  valley  had  disappeared.  Squatting  on  the  very 
level  of  the  far-flung  waters,  the  old  house  still  stood. 
The  bright  sun  struck  a  glint  of  light  from  its  white 
walls  and  gave  rich  colors  to  its  moss-grown  tiles.  The 


242  HOME 

roof  was  crowded  with  fowl  and  a  strange  medley  of 
heavy  flying  birds,  glad  of  a  perch  on  which  to  rest. 
Dona  Maria  went  into  the  house.  She  closed  the  great 
board  shutters.  The  house  looked  as  if  it  had  closed 
its  eyes  in  a  last  renunciation. 

Gerry's  tree  floated  down  the  river.  It  swung 
slowly  along  near  the  north  shore.  Just  below  it  were 
houses.  They  were  perched  on  the  cliff.  Below  them 
were  more  houses  and  under  these  the  tiled  roofs  of 
still  other  houses  just  topped  the  flood.  The  houses 
were  what  was  left  of  Piranhas. 

From  the  shore  canoes  in  search  of  loot  began  to 
shoot  out  on  to  the  quietening  waters.  One  of  them 
happened  upon  Gerry's  tree  and  then  upon  Gerry. 
Gerry's  eyes  opened  and  then  closed  again.  He 
scarcely  felt  the  arms  that  lifted  him.  They  carried 
him  to  the  old  inn,  the  miserable  little  inn  he  had  left 
behind  on  that  glorious  morning  of  so  long  ago. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

A  SHARP  attack  of  fever  followed  Gerry's  expo- 
sure and  immersion.  The  old  woman  of  the  inn 
knew  no  medicaments,  but  she  knew  fever.  She  piled 
blankets  on  Gerry  and  let  him  sweat  it  out.  On  the 
third  day  nature,  assisted  by  his  magnificent  physique, 
finally  routed  the  attack.  Gerry  began  to  feel  hungry. 
He  called  the  old  woman  and  ordered  food.  For  once 
food  in  Piranhas  was  plentiful.  Mandioc,  sweet  po- 
tatoes, pumpkins,  as  well  as  fowl,  marooned  on  trees 
and  wreckage,  had  stocked  the  town  as  it  had  never 
been  stocked  before.  Gerry  ate  heartily. 

Then  he  began  to  think.  The  nightmare  was  all 
true.  From  his  window  he  looked  out  on  the  slowly 
receding  waters  of  the  greatest  flood  the  San  Francisco 
had  ever  seen.  Fazenda  Flores  was  no  more.  With 
it  three  years  of  his  life  had  been  wiped  out.  Out- 
wardly he  was  back  where  he  had  begun.  But  in- 
wardly he  was  eons  away  from  the  starting-point  of 
three  years  ago.  Alix  had  waited  for  him  but  he  had 
not  waited  for  her.  He  had  given  himself  to  Mar- 
garita and  to  Margarita's  son.  Margarita  and  the  Man 
were  dead  but  the  fact  of  his  gift  of  himself  remained. 
What  had  he  but  the  shell,  the  husk  of  himself,  to  take 
back  to  Alix  ? 

He  called  the  old  woman.     He  asked  her  if  she  re- 

243 


244  HOME 

membered  him.  She  peered  at  him.  "  No,  master," 
she  said,  "  I  do  not  remember  you.  You  are  like  the 
foreigner  who  was  drowned,  but  he  is  dead." 

Gerry  shook  his  head.  "  Not  dead,"  he  said,  "  only 
disappeared." 

"  You  are  not  he,"  said  the  old  woman.  "  He  could 
not  talk  words  that  one  could  understand." 

Gerry  nodded  gravely.  He  felt  as  though  words 
could  never  make  him  smile  again.  "  I  have  learned," 
he  said.  "  Now  tell  me  what  became  of  the  things  I 
left  here  ?  "  He  went  through  the  list. 

The  old  woman  checked  off  each  item  and  then 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  She  led  him  to  a  little  dark 
room  whose  only  light  came  from  the  interstices  of  the 
tiled  roof.  As  his  pupils  expanded  he  began  to  make 
out  one  after  another  of  the  bags  that  had  made  up  his 
traveling  kit. 

"  There  is  a  letter,"  she  said,  and  went  off  to  fetch 
it.  Gerry  dragged  the  bags  out  into  the  light.  Their 
locks  were  all  sealed  with  the  seal  of  the  American 
Consulate  at  Pernambuco.  He  started  knocking  off 
the  brittle  wax.  The  old  woman  came  back  with  the 
letter  and  handed  it  to  him.  He  tore  it  open.  It 
was  a  note  from  the  consul  saying  that  by  order  of 
Gerry's  wife  his  things  had  been  sealed  and  left  at 
the  inn,  and  telling  him  where  to  find  the  keys.  The 
room,  he  learned  from  the  old  woman  had  been  paid 
for  regularly,  at  first  by  the  month,  then  by  the  year. 
She  felt  no  resentment  at  his  return,  only  resignation. 
"  You  are  the  only  guest  I  Ve  had  since  you  went 
away,"  she  said  quaintly  and  with  a  sigh. 


HOME  245 

"Fear  nothing,"  said  Gerry  kindly.  "You  have 
been  faithful.  You  may  consider  the  room  engaged 
by  me  for  the  next  ten  years." 

He  carried  his  bags  into  the  room  overlooking  the 
river  and  then  lay  down.  He  was  too  tired  after  the 
fever  to  open  them.  He  knew  that  the  opening  of  those 
dust-covered  bags  with  their  rusted  metal  fittings  was 
going  to  be  another  ordeal. 

The  next  day  Gerry  sat  before  his  unpacked  bags. 
He  had  turned  out  all  their  contents.  On  the  bed, 
the  floor,  the  table  and  the  chairs  was  piled  such  an 
array  of  linen  and  shoes  and  suits  of  various  cut  and 
weight  as  he  had  once  deemed  the  minimum  with  which 
a  man  could  decently  travel.  Now  they  seemed  to  him 
wasteful  and  futile.  The  clothes  did  not  carry  his 
mind  back  as  he  had  expected.  The  starch  in  the 
linen  had  gone  yellow.  He  had  always  hated  yellow 
collars.  The  suits  struck  him  as  belonging  to  some 
one  else  —  all  except  one.  One  sturdy  suit  of  tweed 
had  a  cut  that  was  different  from  the  others.  Of  all 
the  clothes  it  alone  seemed  to  have  a  personal  note  — 
the  note  he  had  expected  to  find  in  the  bags  and  had 
shrunk  from. 

Then  he  remembered.  This  suit  had  been  made  by 
his  own  tailor.  He  had  worn  it  during  a  flying  visit 
to  Eed  Hill.  He  had  had  it  on  the  day  he  left  New 
York.  He  had  worn  it  that  morning  in  Alix'  room. 
Red  Hill  came  back  to  him,  Alix  stood  before  him. 
Through  the  suit  he  saw  her  room,  the  shimmering  blue 
of  her  dressing-gown,  her  crown  of  hair  and  her  thin 
fingers  busy  with  it.  He  felt  again  the  nip  of  the 


246  HOME 

clear  air  as  it  had  streamed  in  through  the  open  win- 
dow. 

How  calm  Alix  had  been "  under  his  arraignment. 
How  curious  had  been  her  eyes  as  he  raved  at  her. 
Would  she  have  been  calm  and  curious  like  that  if 
she  had  really  loved  Alan  ?  He  remembered  the 
shameful  things  he  had  said  before  he  could  lash  her 
into  an  answering  temper.  He  heard  again  the  scratch- 
ing of  a  pen  as  he  had  heard  it  that  morning,  stand- 
ing in  the  hall  outside  her  door.  How  blind  he  had 
been !  She  had  been  writing  to  Alan  —  writing  to  him 
in  the  white  heat  of  anger.  He  had  driven  her  to  it 
with  his  shameful  words.  He  had  left  her  no  other 
answer.  And  after  all,  she  had  waited!  Gerry  put 
his  hands  to  his  forehead.  It  was  wet  with  cold  sweat. 
He  got  up  and  went  out. 

The  worst  of  the  flood  was  over.  Gerry  engaged  a 
search  party.  All  day  long  they  sought  for  Mar- 
garita and  her  child.  Towards  night  they  found  them, 
the  little  boy  tight  clasped  in  his  mother's  arms.  Gerry 
laid  them  tenderly  in  the  canoe  and  in  silence  the  party 
crawled  back  up  the  river  to  Piranhas.  No  one  looked 
curiously  at  the  burden  they  carried  up  through  the 
main  street.  Eyes  were  tired  of  the  familiar  sight. 
The  hour  of  weeping,  the  allotted  tears,  were  long  since 
spent.  They  buried  them  that  night.  Gerry  went 
back  to  his  room.  He  could  not  eat.  He  sat  for  a 
long  time  looking  out  on  the  starry  river.  Then  un- 
consciously he  picked  up  the  old  tweed  suit  and  hung 
it  carefully  on  a  chair.  The  rest  of  his  scattered  things 
he  swept  unceremoniously  upon  the  floor  and  threw 


HOME  247 

himself  full  length  on  the  bed.  He  was  exhausted  and 
slept. 

He  was  up  early  the  next  morning.  He  made  the  old 
woman  bring  water  and  bathed  in  his  room.  "It  is 
wise,"  she  said.  "  For  many  days  there  will  be  poison 
in  the  river."  Gerry  did  not  answer.  He  closed  the 
door  and  went  through  his  ablutions  and  toilet  with 
great  care.  His  beard  he  had  always  kept  close- 
clipped.  Now  he  shaved  it  off.  The  tan  of  his  face 
looked  like  a  mask  above  the  fresh  white  of  his  newly 
shaved  jowls  and  chin.  He  picked  out  the  best  of  his 
linen  and  dressed.  Lastly,  he  put  on  the  old  tweed 
suit.  It  fell  naturally  to  the  lines  of  his  body  all  ex- 
cept the  waistband  of  the  trousers.  He  drew  the  back 
strap  as  close  as  it  would  go.  Still  the  trousers  were 
a  little  loose  at  the  waist.  At  first  he  was  puzzled, 
then  he  understood.  He  looked  at  himself  in  the 
broken  glass  with  a  gorgeous  but  sadly  tarnished  frame 
that  hung  on  the  wall.  His  shoulders  seemed  to  carry 
the  coat  better  than  before.  He  could  hear  Jones  & 
Jones  say,  "  A  splendid  fit,  sir.  You  can't  pick  it  up 
anywhere." 

Gerry  turned  from  the  glass  with  a  sigh.  He  was 
restless.  The  heavy  tweeds  seemed  to  bind  his  limbs 
and  chest,  but  he  would  not  take  them  off.  He  sat  at 
the  window  and  watched  the  little  stern-wheeler  splash 
up  to  the  bank.  Luckily  for  her,  she  had  been  three 
days  late  in  starting  up  the  river;  else  that  trip  would 
have  been  her  last.  Gerry  tried  to  exert  himself  to 
the  trouble  of  packing  and  getting  on  board  but  he 
felt  listless.  Why  should  he  hurry  back?  Alix  had 


248  HOME 

waited,  was  waiting,  but  not  for  him.  He  had  not 
waited  for  her.  He  must  go  back  and  tell  her,  of 
course,  but  what  then? 

A  cavalcade  came  down  the  street.  At  its  nead  was 
carried  a  litter  and  on  the  litter  lay  Alan.  He  had 
refused  to  ride  in  a  hammock  again.  Behind  him  rode 
Lieber  and  Kemp.  Gerry  drew  back  from  the  win- 
dow and  watched  them  make  their  way  down  to  the 
little  stern-wheeler.  She  had  brought  little  freight, 
there  was  none  for  her  to  take  away.  By  three  o'clock 
she  gave  a  long  shriek  of  warning  and  half  an  hour 
later  she  warped  out  into  the  river  and  chugged  away 
down  stream.  At  the  last  moment,  Gerry  had  sent 
down  to  Alan  a  note  addressed  to  Alix. 

Lieber  turned  from  watching  the  boat  out  of  sight. 
It  was  bearing  Alan  away  with  Kemp  installed  as  nurse 
as  far  as  the  coast.  Lieber  stumped  heavily  up  the 
street,  leading  his  horse.  From  his  window  Gerry 
called  to  him.  Lieber  took  the  reins  from  his  arm 
and  handed  them  to  a  boy.  He  climbed  to  Gerry's 
room  and  sat  down  on  the  bed.  Gerry  had  never  seen 
him  look  so  tired. 

"  So,"  said  Lieber,  "  you  escaped." 

Gerry  nodded  gravely.  Lieber  looked  at  him  with 
dull  eyes.  "  We  passed  Fazenda  Flores.  The  house 
still  stands.  It's  on  a  little  island."  Gerry  nodded 
again.  Lieber  shrugged  a  shoulder  impatiently. 
"  Why  are  n't  you  up  there  ?  " 

Gerry  braced  himself  and  told  him.  In  a  dispas- 
sionate tone  he  told  him  the  history  of  those  terrible 
moments  of  destruction  and  death.  "  I  am  not  there," 


HOME  249 

he  finished,  "because  there  is  nothing  left.  Three 
years  —  all  my  life  here  —  have  been  wiped  out. 
Margarita  —  she  knew  from  the  beginning.  From  the 
beginning  she  hated  the  ditch.  I  have  been  a  curse. 
I  have  brought  ruin."  Gerry  stared  before  him.  His 
face  was  white  and  drawn. 

Lieber  shook  his  head  judicially.  "  !Nb,  it  would 
have  been  the  same  except  that  without  you  there  would 
have  been  nothing  to  sweep  away.  Margarita  would 
still  be  alive.  There  would  have  been  no  boy."  He 
paused.  "  Somehow,"  he  went  on,  "  I  don't  believe 
Margarita  would  have  chosen  to  have  things  different. 
She  got  her  jour  d'exidse  and  died  before  it  was  over. 
I  —  I  don't  think  we  need  be  sorry  for  her.  Why 
did  n't  you  go  away  on  the  boat  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Gerry.  "  I  tried  to,  but  I 
could  n't.  I  just  buried  her  and  the  boy  last  night.  I 
could  n't  run  away  like  that  as  though  it  were  all  over. 
Of  course,  I  know  it  is  all  over  but  when  one  falls  an 
endless  depth  in  sleep  and  suddenly  wakes  in  a  cold 
sweat  it  takes  time  for  the  mind  to  catch  its  balance. 
It's  that  way  with  me.  I've  fallen  from  a  height. 
I  've  waked  to  a  cold  sweat.  I  must  take  time  to  get 
the  balance  of  life  and  get  it  right.  You  can't  hurry 
over  these  transitions,  because  somehow  it  would  n't  be 
decent." 

Lieber  nodded.  "You  don't  feel  like  riding  back 
with  me  ?  "  he  asked  hesitatingly. 

Gerry  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said.  "I  can't 
do  that.  I'm  just  going  to  sit  here  and  wait  for  a 
while  and  then  I  'm  going  home.  There  's  something 


250  HOME 

I  've  got  to  straighten  out.  After  that,  I  don't  know. 
But  there  's  something  I  wish  you  'd  do  for  me,  Lieber, 
and  that  is  to  look  after  old  Dona  Maria  and  those  two 
old  darkies  at  Fazenda  Flores.  They  won't  last  long, 
any  of  them,  and  I  don't  want  them  to  lack  for  any- 
thing. I  '11  square  up  with  you." 

Lieber  nodded  listlessly.     "  I  '11  look  out  for  them." 

The  next  morning  early,  Gerry  saw  him  off.  There 
was  a  wistful  look  in  the  old  man's  eyes  as  from  the 
top  of  the  cliff  he  turned  and  gazed  down  the  river. 
"  Lieber,"  said  Gerry,  "  you  can  count  on  me  to  do 
what  I  can  for  you  when  I  get  home.  Do  you  under- 
stand ?  " 

Lieber  flushed.  Their  eyes  met.  He  took  Gerry's 
outstretched  hand  and  gripped  it  hard.  Then  he  rode 
away  without  a  word. 

Lieber  threw  his  horse  into  a  rapid  rack  that  was 
faster  than  a  gallop.  It  was  a  killing  pace  but  he 
knew  the  mettle  of  his  mount.  Late  in  the  afternoon 
he  came  to  the  confines  of  his  ranch.  The  broad-eaved 
house  in  the  distance  looked  very  still  and  deserted. 
Beyond  it  loomed  the  solitary  joa  tree.  Something 
had  happened  to  the  joa  tree  during  the  two  days  he 
had  been  away.  It  had  become  a  beacon.  He  re- 
membered the  giant  Bougainvillea  vine  that  covered 
the  tree.  The  Bougainvillea  had  bloomed  into  a  tower 
of  mauve  flame.  It  stood  out  in  daring  contrast  to 
somber  desert  and  brown-tiled  roofs.  Its  single,  de- 
fiant and  blaring  note  struck  an  answering  chord  in 
Lieber's  heart.  He  took  courage  of  that  brave  burst 
of  color,  so  jarring  in  a  garden,  but  in  the  desert,  a 


HOME  251 

thing  of  glory.  Lieber  passed  into  the  loneliness  of 
his  deserted  house  with  a  firm  step. 

Gerry  spent  many  days  at  Piranhas  as  he  had 
planned,  in  thought.  He  went  over  his  life  in  a  pains- 
taking retrospection.  His  mind  lingered  long  on  the 
last  three  years,  their  fullness,  their  even  upward  trend. 
Could  a  man  live  three  such  years  and  lose  them  ?  In 
a  ghastly  half  hour  the  flood  had  wiped  out  the  tan- 
gible results  of  three  years  of  labor.  But  what  about 
the  intangible?  He  had  sinned  against  Alix  and 
against  her  faith  but  had  he  sinned  against  himself? 
He  felt  infinitely  older  than  the  first  Gerry  Lansing 
but  would  he  change  this  thinking  age  for  his  unthink- 
ing youth  ?  What  if  he  had  learned  three  years  ago 
that  Alix  had  saved  herself  and  his  name?  Would 
it  have  meant  loss  or  gain  to  him  to-day?  Something 
within  him  cried,  "  Loss !  Loss !  "  but  he  dared  not 
take  courage  from  the  inward  cry.  He  could  not  know, 
he  reasoned,  until  he  had  seen  Alix. 

Until  he  had  seen  Alix.  That  thought  haunted  him. 
It  drove  him.  He  must  see  Alix.  He  must  start  by 
the  very  next  boat  but  when  the  next  boat  came  some 
gnawing  fear  of  unreadiness  held  him  back.  His  fear 
was  greater  than  the  compelling  thought  of  Alix. 

Twice,  three  times,  the  little  stern-wheeler  drove  her 
nose  into  the  mud  bank  at  Piranhas,  called  her  hoarse 
warning  and  departed.  From  some  distant  cliff  Gerry 
saw  her  come  and  go  or,  miles  away,  walking  himself 
tired  across  the  desert,  heard  her  throaty  siren  cry  and 
did  not  heed  it. 


CHAPTEK  XXXIV 

IT  was  with  some  misgivings  that  Kemp  left  Alan 
at  the  coast.  Alan  was  still  very  weak.  Kemp 
stood,  more  incongruous  than  ever,  against  the  rail  of 
the  little  coaster  bound  for  Pernambuco  and  eyed  Alan 
whom  he  had  made  comfortable  in  a  camp  bed  on  the 
deck. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Wayne,"  he  said,  "  that  there 
mought  be  business  waitin'  fer  me  at  Pernambuco  thet 
I  do'n  know  nothin'  about.  I  've  got  a  hunch  I  'd  best 
go  along  of  you  and  see." 

Alan  smiled.  "  I  know  what  your  hunch  is,  Kemp, 
and  it 's  a  wrong  one.  I  'm  all  right.  Weak,  but  I  '11 
make  it.  Don't  worry." 

Kemp  was  standing  in  angles.  His  hands  were 
thrust  in  his  trouser-pockets  but  even  so  his  elbows 
were  crooked.  One  foot  was  raised  on  a  rail.  He 
was  coatless  as  usual.  His  unbuttoned  vest  stuck  out 
behind.  His  Stetson  hat  was  pulled  well  down  over 
his  eyes.  His  eyes  had  taken  on  the  far-away  and 
slightly  luminous  look  that  always  came  into  them  when 
he  was  about  to  speak  from  the  heart. 

"  Mr.  Wayne/'  he  said,  "  I  've  tol'  you  some  things 
about  Lieber  an'  you  've  seen  some  more.  You  know 
how  he  stands.  Lieber  's  livin'  in  Hell,  like  the  rich 

greaser  in  the  Bible  with  his  tongue  stuck  out  beggin' 

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HOME  253 

for  one  drop  of  water,  only  Lieber  hain't  got  his  tongue 
stuck  out  —  he  's  bitin'  it." 

Kemp  paused  and  Alan  nodded. 

"  I  was  thinkin',"  Kemp  continued,  "  thet  perhaps 
you  'n  Mr.  Lansing  with  yo'  folks  he'pin'  mought  chuck 
him  that  drop  o'  water  when  you  get  back  to  Heaven, 
meanin'  Noo  Yawk."  Kemp  brought  his  eyes  slowly 
around  and  rested  them  on  Alan. 

"  Kemp,"  said  Alan,  "  don't  you  worry.  If  J.  Y. 
Wayne  &  Co.  have  n't  gone  to  smash  or  the  world  other- 
wise come  to  an  end  you  can  be  sure  Lieber  will  get 
his  water  in  a  full  bucket." 

Kemp  nodded  and  with  a  "  S'long  and  good  luck," 
disappeared  down  the  gangway. 

At  Pernambuco  Alan  found  an  accumulation  of  mail 
awaiting  him  and  a  liner  bound  for  home.  The  liner 
was  too  big  to  get  into  the  little  harbor  behind  the  reef. 
She  rode  the  swell  a  mile  out  from  shore. 

Alan  lost  no  time  in  making  his  transfer.  From  the 
tender  he  was  winched  up  to  the  deck  in  a  passenger 
basket.  As  he  left  the  wicker  coop  he  smiled  at  him- 
self in  disgust.  Ten  Percent  Wayne  had  often  jumped 
for  a  gangway  from  the  top  of  a  flying  sea;  never  be- 
fore had  he  gone  on  board  as  cargo.  But  the  smile 
suddenly  left  his  face.  He  reeled  and  put  out  one  hand 
toward  a  rail.  Somebody  caught  his  arm  and  led  him 
to  a  long  chair.  He  sank  into  it  and  shivered. 

It  was  a  girl  that  had  helped  him.  As  soon  as  she 
saw  he  was  not  going  to  faint  she  left  him,  to  come 
back  presently  with  the  doctor  and  a  room  steward. 
They  took  charge  of  him. 


254  HOME 

Day  after  day  Alan  lay  in  his  cabin,  listless,  before 
he  thought  of  his  batch  of  letters.  They  were  still  in 
the  pocket  of  his  coat.  He  asked  the  steward  to  hand 
them  to  him,  looked  through  them,  picked  out  one 
and  laid  the  rest  aside.  The  one  he  picked  out  was 
Clem's. 

With  her  own  peculiar  wisdom  Clem  had  written  not 
about  him  or  herself,  but  about  Red  Hill.  Alan  read 
and  then  dropped  the  letter  to  his  lap.  His  hands  fell 
clenched  at  his  sides.  His  eyes,  grown  large,  stared 
out  down  the  long  vista  of  the  mind.  Walls  faded  away 
and  the  sounds  of  a  great  ship  at  sea  were  suddenly 
dumb.  To  his  ears  came  instead  the  caroling  of  birds 
in  evening  song  after  rain,  to  his  eyes  a  vision  of  Red 
Hill  dripping  light  from  its  myriad  leaves  and  to  his 
heart  the  protecting,  brooding  shelter  of  Maple  House 
—  of  home. 

It  cleanses  a  man's  soul  to  have  been  at  death's  door. 
Sickness,  more  than  love,  leads  a  man  up.  Alan  was 
feeling  cleansed  —  like  a  little  child  —  so  that  it  seemed 
a  quite  natural  thing  that  the  girl  who  had  taken  charge 
of  him  on  his  arrival  on  board  should  knock  at  his  door 
and  then  walk  in.  She  drew  out  a  camp-stool  and  sat 
down  beside  him. 

She  was  very  small  and  very  young,  not  in  years 
but  with  what  Alan  termed  to  himself  acquired  youth. 
Her  near-sighted  eyes  peered  out  through  big  glasses. 
They  seemed  to  see  only  when  they  made  a  special 
effort  and  yet  they  seemed  to  give  out  light. 

"  You  are  better  ?  "  she  asked  and  smiled. 

Alan  caught  his  breath  at  that  smile.     "  Yes,"  he 


HOME  255 

said,  "  I  am  much  better  to-day.  I  have  had  a  letter 
from  home." 

"  You  must  get  up  now  and  come  up  on  deck,"  said 
the  girl.  "  I  '11  wait  for  you  outside."  Her  voice  had 
a  peculiar  modulation.  It  attracted  and  soothed  the 
ear. 

Alan  frowned  and  then  smiled.  "  All  right,"  he 
said,  "  wait  for  me."  He  dressed  laboriously.  His 
hands  seemed  weighted. 

On  deck  she  had  his  chair  ready  for  him  beside  her 
own.  She  tucked  his  rug  about  him  and  then  sat  down. 
"  Don't  talk  ever,  unless  you  want  to,"  she  said.  "  Si- 
lent people  are  best." 

"Why?"  asked  Alan. 

"  They  are  springs.     Their  souls  bubble." 

"  And  the  people  that  chatter  ?  "  asked  Alan. 

"  They  are  geysers,"  said  the  girl  and  smiled. 

Alan  was  entertained  —  almost  amused.  "  What  do 
you  do  when  a  geyser  spouts  ? "  he  asked. 

"  What  do  you  do  ?  "  replied  the  girl.     "  I  run." 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  have  n't  run  —  always,"  said  Alan. 
"  I  generally  try  to  clap  a  tin  hat  on  them." 

"  You  must  be  strong  to  do  that.  I  'm  not  very 
strong." 

Alan  glanced  over  her  frail  body.  "  What  are  you  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  I'm  a  missionary.  At  least,  I  was  a  missionary. 
I  've  had  to  give  it  up.  One  needs  so  much  to  be  a 
missionary." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it  that  way,"  said  Alan.  "  I 
always  thought  that  it  was  the  people  that  were  unfit 


256  HOME 

for  almost  anything  else  that  turned  to  missionarying 
as  a  last  resort." 

"  Oh,  no! "  said  the  girl,  sitting  up  very  straight  in 
her  chair  and  fixing  her  eyes  on  his  face.  "  How 
wrong  you  are!  Missionarying,  as  you  call  it,  is  just 
another  name  for  giving,  and  how  can  one  give  a  great 
deal  unless  one  has  a  great  deal  to  give  —  strength  and 
youth  and  vitality  ?  " 

"  And  you  have  given  all  ?  "  asked  Alan. 

The  girl's  eyes  filled. 

"  No,  you  have  n't  given  all,"  went  on  Alan  quickly. 
"  You  are  still  giving.  I  must  not  borrow  your  last 
mite.  But  —  your  voice  is  like  a  nurse's  hand." 

When  Alan  went  to  bed  he  could  not  sleep.  For  a 
while  the  little  missionary  girl  held  his  thoughts.  He 
was  filled  with  wonder,  not  at  her,  but  at  himself.  For 
once  in  his  life  he  had  not  been  flippant  before  grave 
things. 

From  the  girl  his  thoughts  turned  to  Alix.  He 
could  have  cabled  to  her  about  Gerry  from  Pernambuco 
but  he  had  not  done  so.  The  note  that  he  was  carry- 
ing for  Gerry  was  light  —  only  a  half  sheet  probably. 
The  lightness  of  it  told  Alan  that  the  things  Gerry  had 
to  say  to  his  wife  could  not  be  put  on  paper.  Alan  had 
almost  cabled.  Now  he  was  glad  he  had  not  done  so. 
"  Alix,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  is  n't  waiting,  she  's  trust- 
ing. A  cable  would  have  lengthened  waiting  by  a 
month." 

Then,  without  volition,  his  mind  wandered  from  Alix 
and  raced  ahead  to  the  goal  of  his  journey.  What  was 
the  goal  of  his  journey  ?  Whither  was  he  bound  ?  He 


HOME  257 

reached  for  Clem's  letter  and  held  it  in  folded  hands. 
He  had  no  need  to  read  it  again.  The  words  were  noth- 
ing ;  the  picture  was  all.  It  stretched  before  his  mind, 
a  living  canvass. 

Once  when  Alan  was  wandering  with  an  Englishman 
in  the  hills  above  Granada,  a  faint  odor  had  brought 
them  to  a  sudden  halt.  It  was  the  Englishman  who 
made  the  surprising  discovery  first.  "  Blackberries,  by 
Jove !  "  he  had  exclaimed.  "  Good  old  blackberries." 
And  then  they  two  had  stood  together,  yet  half  a  world 
apart,  and  stared  long  at  the  berry-laden  bush.  What 
vision  of  a  tangled,  high-walled  garden  burst  upon  the 
Englishman  Alan  never  knew  but  to  himself  had  come 
a  memory  of  East  Mountain  in  autumn,  so  clear,  so 
poignant,  that  it  had  brought  his  throbbing  heart  into 
his  throat. 

It  was  so  now  with  Clem's  letter.  The  words  were 
but  a  hurried  daub  but  they  touched  his  eyes  with  a 
magic  wand.  The  daub  became  a  scene,  a  picture,  a 
world  —  his  world. 

Eed  Hill  was  spread  out  before  him,  a  texture  where 
the  threads  and  colors  of  life  were  blended  into  a  car- 
pet soft  but  enduring.  Men  walked  and  little  children 
played  on  it.  Alan  closed  his  eyes  and  sighed.  What 
had  he  been  doing  with  life  ?  Making  sacking  ?  Sack- 
ing was  commercial.  It  paid  in  cash.  It  was  the  na- 
tional industry.  But  what  could  one  do  with  sacking 
on  Red  Hill  ? 

Then,  almost  suddenly,  the  full  spirit  of  Clem's  let- 
ter seized  him.  One  did  not  take  gifts  to  Red  Hill. 
To  every  one  of  its  children  Red  Hill  was  the  source  of 


258  HOME 

all  gifts  —  the  source  of  life.     On  that  thought  he 
slept. 

When  he  was  back  once  more  in  his  rooms,  before 
Swithson  had  had  time  to  open  a  bag,  Alan  redirected 
Gerry's  note  to  Alix  to  Eed  Hill  and  sent  Swithson  out 
to  post  it.  He  did  not  try  to  temper  the  shock  of  the 
note  with  a  covering  letter.  He  was  too  weak  and 
tired.  Besides,  he  felt  that  the  note  carried  its  own 
antidote  to  joy. 


CHAPTEE  XXXV 

THE  next  morning  a  message  came  by  hand  to 
Alan's  rooms.  Alix  had  come  to  town  and 
wished  to  see  him  at  once.  Would  he  please  come 
around?  He  replied  that  he  was  too  ill.  Half  an 
hour  later  Swithson  answered  a  ring  at  the  door  and 
Alix  slipped  quickly  past  him  into  Alan's  sitting-room. 
There  was  a  flush  of  anger  in  her  cheeks  but  Alan  was 
pleased  to  see  no  trace  of  tears  in  her  eyes.  A  woman's 
crying  always  touched  him  on  the  raw  and  seldom 
awakened  his  pity. 

At  sight  of  him  Alix  forgot  her  concern  for  herself. 
"  Why,  Alan !  "  she  cried,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Alan  laughed.  There  was  a  pleasant  note  in  his 
laugh  she  had  never  heard  before.  "  I  'm  all  right, 
Alix.  Don't  make  any  mistake.  I  'm  a  resurrection 
in  the  bud.  Doing  fine.  I  don't  have  to  ask  how  you 
are.  You  're  well.  You  're  looking  just  as  well  as 
a  little  slip  like  you  can  ever  look.  Sit  down,  do." 

Alix'  thoughts  went  back  to  herself  and  immediately 
the  flame  burned  again  in  her  cheeks.  She  pulled 
Gerry's  crumpled  note  from  her  glove  and  tossed  it 
open  on  the  table  before  Alan.  He  read  the  two  or 
three  lines  in  which  Gerry  told  her  he  would  arrive 
shortly.  The  brief  note  was  intentionally  colorless. 
"Well? "he  asked. 

259 


260  HOME 

Alix  turned  flashing  eyes  on  him.  "  Well  ?  Is  that 
all  you  have  to  say  ?  Alan,  it  is  not  well.  I  've  come 
here  because  you  must  tell  me  —  somebody  must  tell  me 
—  now  —  all  the  things  that  that  note  hides  behind  its 
wonderfully  blank,  weazened,  little,  hypocritical  face." 

Alan's  eyes  gleamed  with  amusement  at  the  rippling 
words.  Alix  was  certainly  well.  Then  suddenly  she 
collapsed  into  a  chair.  "  Three  years !  "  she  gasped. 
Her  hands  went  up  to  hold  her  head  and  she  began  to 
cry  in  a  way  Alan  had  never  heard  a  woman  cry  before. 
The  gasping  sobs  racked  his  nerves.  He  felt  as  though 
the  sobs  were  tearing  their  way  up  from  his  own  breast. 
He  gripped  the  arms  of  the  chair  in  which  he  sat.  His 
body  telephoned  to  his  brain  that  he  was  going  to  faint 
and  at  such  astounding  news  Ten  Percent  Wayne  woke 
up  and  took  charge.  "  Alix !  "  the  word  snapped  out 
like  the  crack  of  a  whip.  "  You  stop  crying  or  I  '11 
slap  you,  and  when  I  slap  I  slap  hard." 

Alix  choked,  swallowed  and  looked  at  him,  outraged 
and  unbelieving.  Alan's  eyes  were  blazing.  "  You 
listen  to  me,"  he  commanded,  "  listen  to  every  word  I 
say.  You  've  gone  through  a  lot  in  three  years  but  just 
fasten  your  mind  on  to  this :  so  has  Gerry.  That  note 
is  colorless  because  Gerry  made  it  colorless.  It  does  n't 
tell  anything,  because  Gerry  is  n't  a  coward  and  because 
there  are  things  he  must  tell  you  face  to  face  to  get 
your  answer  clear  in  his  own  mind.  I  'm  making  you 
curious  with  every  word.  All  right,  be  curious.  But 
you  can  be  sure  of  one  thing ;  if  Gerry  had  wanted  me 
to  tell  you  his  story  he  'd  have  asked  me  to,  but  he 
did  n't.  He  did  n't  even  ask  me  not  to.  He  was  stand- 


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ing  in  deep  waters  but  he  had  his  head  and  shoulders 
out.  He  was  n't  asking  for  my,  or  anybody  else's  hand 
to  help  him  up  the  bank.  He  did  n't  ask  me  not  to 
meddle  because  he  knew  I  was  man  enough  to  see  where 
he  stood  without  words.  He  trusted  me."  Alan's  voice 
trailed  off  weakly.  He  closed  his  eyes. 

"  But,  Alan,"  said  Alix,  "  I  must  know  something. 
Is  he  well  ?  Is  he  — " 

Alan  held  up  his  hand.  "  Just  one  thing  and  then 
I  'm  going  to  sleep.  I  never  thought  the  old  Eock 
would  ever  loom  so  big." 

Alix  watched  him  doze  off.  She  felt  strangely  com- 
forted by  the  crumb  he  had  tossed  her.  She  went  back 
in  her  mind  to  a  dinner  of  long  ago  when  she  had  de- 
fended Gerry's  placid  weight  against  Alan.  She  sat  on 
for  half  an.  hour  busy  with  varying  thoughts.  She 
looked  curiously  around  Alan's  sitting-room.  How 
strange  that  she  should  be  here  and  yet  how  natural. 
How  safe  she  felt.  She  wondered  if  it  was  all  because 
of  the  defenses  she  had  raised  up  in  herself  or  whether 
any  woman  would  feel  safe  with  the  new  and  weakened 
Alan.  She  slipped  out  without  waking  him  and  sent 
a  cable  to  Pernambuco.  By  night  she  had  an  answer. 
Gerry  had  not  yet  sailed ! 

Days  passed.  She  went  out  only  for  exercise.  Her 
mind  was  busy  with  wondering.  The  Judge  called 
regularly.  He  had  put  off  going  to  Red  Hill.  He 
wanted  Alix  to  feel  that  a  friend  was  at  hand  and,  be- 
sides, he  had  Alan  on  his  hands.  Alan  was  worrying 
him  in  a  new  way.  Something  had  gone  out  of  him. 
Sometimes  he  seemed  to  the  Judge  a  mere  shell  —  a 


262  HOME 

blown  egg,  robbed  of  the  seed  of  life.  The  Judge  talked 
of  him  often  to  Alix  but  she  could  not  fasten  her  mind 
on  Alan.  "  Take  him  to  the  Hill,"  was  her  listless 
advice. 

"  I  've  tried,"  said  the  Judge,  "  and  he  says  he  's  not 
ready  —  not  strong  enough.  I  told  him  that 's  what  he 
ought  to  go  for  —  to  get  strong  —  and  he  said  a  funny 
thing.  l  There  's  a  kind  of  strength  we  must  generate 
or  borrow.  I  did  n't  borrow,  so  now  I  'm  generating. 
It  takes  time.'  And  then  he  dropped  off  to  sleep.  Be- 
fore, he  used  to  run  you  through  with  his  tongue  when 
he  wanted  to  stop  a  conversation.  Now  he  just  goes  to 
sleep.  It 's  just  as  effective  and  almost  as  original." 

One  afternoon  the  Judge  came  in  with  a  smile  on  his 
face.  "  Alan  is  better,"  he  announced. 

"  Is  n't  he  better  every  day  ?  "  asked  Alix. 

"  ~Not  like  this,"  said  the  Judge.  "  You  know 
Fleureur  ?  Of  course  you  don't.  You  would  n't. 
Can't  imagine  how  he  ever  got  into  the  club,  but  he  did. 
Well,  it 's  a  long  time  since  Mr.  Fleureur  has  been  asked 
to  cut  in  at  bridge  at  the  club  or  anywhere  else.  Yester- 
day he  came  in  and  saw  Alan  for  the  first  time  since  his 
return.  '  Hallo,  Wayne,'  he  said,  '  back  again  and  do- 
ing the  heavy  swell  as  ever  only  not  quite  so  heavy  inside 
the  clothes  now,  eh  ?  '  Alan  is  getting  touchy  over  being 
a  weakling.  That 's  a  good  sign  too,  by  the  way.  He 
looked  sideways  out  of  his  sleepy  eyes  at  Fleureur  and 
you  bet  everybody  listened."  The  Judge  paused  at  thus 
forgetting  himself ;  then  he  went  on.  "  Alan  said,  '  Do 
clothes  matter  such  a  lot?  Somehow  it  seems  to  me  it 
does  n't  make  any  difference  how  much  a  man  waxes 


HOME  263 

his  mustache   as   long  as   he  does  n't  wax  his  finger 
nails.'  " 

Alix'  face  lit  up.  "Oh,  that  is  Alan."  The 
Judge's  eyes  twinkled.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "and  then 
Alan  went  off  to  sleep  like  a  shot  and  Eleureur  remem- 
bered an  engagement.  The  whole  club's  cheered  up. 
The  club  did  n't  know  what  was  the  matter  with  itself 
but  it  knows  now.  It  was  missing  Alan  after  he  had 
come  back." 

Alan  had  written  to  Mrs.  J.  Y.  that  he  was  planning 
to  motor  from  town  to  Eed  Hill.  Clem,  as  Mrs.  J.  Y.'s 
deputy,  had  answered  his  letter,  promising  him  a  warm, 
and  long  welcome  at  Maple  House.  She  gave  him  a 
way-bill.  "  It 's  the  simplest  way-bill  in  the  world," 
she  wrote,  "  out  of  town  and  along  the  Sound  till  you 
come  to  The  River,  then  up  the  valley  till  the  bald  top 
of  East  Mountain  signals  you  from  the  left.  Climb  the 
mountain  and  from  there  the  old  church  will  lead  you 
home." 

"  The  old  church  will  lead  you  home,"  Alan  repeated 
to  himself  as  he  let  his  relaxed  body  lounge  across  the 
tonneau  and  trusted  to  cushions  and  springs  to  take  up 
the  bumps.  His  thoughts  raced  ahead  of  him  to  Red 
Hill.  In  memory  he  plodded  over  dusty  roads  and 
through  mossy  lanes,  swam,  fished  and  loafed,  wept  and 
laughed.  He  was  going  back  to  the  cradle  of  all  his 
emotions. 

The  wind  and  the  motion  of  the  car  made  him  sleepy. 
He  dozed.  He  awoke  to  see  East  Mountain  looming  in 
the  distance.  Steadily  the  car  drew  into  its  lee.  Alan 
sighted  a  climbing  road  and  called  directions  to  the 


264  HOME 

driver.  From  the  bare  top  of  the  mountain  he  made 
out  the  old  church,  a  white  speck  on  a  far-away  hill. 
He  stood  up  and  traced  the  course  they  were  to  follow. 
He  was  filled  with  a  strange  excitement.  "  Never  mind 
the  bumps  —  open  her  up,"  he  ordered  and  sat  down 
and  closed  his  eyes. 

The  car  shot  down  into  the  valley,  rattled  across  one 
bridge  and  then  another,  sped  along  the  Low  Road,  over- 
shot the  embowered  mouth  of  Long  Lane,  protested  with 
the  grinding  of  changing  gears,  backed,  turned,  and  then 
lurched  forward  again  and  up.  Long  Lane  was  as  cool 
as  memory  and  as  balmy  with  the  twining  odors  of  birch 
and  sassafras  and  laurel  as  childhood's  recollection. 
Alan  drew  a  long,  full  breath  and  then  the  car  ran  out 
on  to  the  top  of  Red  Hill,  swerved  to  the  right  and 
turned  in  under  the  low  hanging  limbs  of  the  maples. 

It  was  early  afternoon.  The  old  homestead  was  very 
still.  As  the  car  drew  up  at  the  curb  a  girl  rose  from  a 
deep  chair  on  the  veranda  and  stepped  forward.  Alan 
caught  his  breath  and  stared.  He  felt  himself  a  little 
boy.  Nance,  a  mere  rosebud  of  a  girl,  stood  before  him 
and  smiled  at  his  bewildered  face.  "  You  're  Uncle 
Alan,  are  n't  you  ?  "  The  soft  voice  sustained  illusion 
but  the  words  brought  him  to  himself  —  made  him  feel 
suddenly  older  by  a  generation.  Then  he  smiled  back 
at  her  and  chaffed,  "  You  have  been  busy  since  I  saw 
you  last.  Have  I  the  honor  of  presenting  myself  to 
Miss  Sterling  ?  " 

"  The  same,"  replied  the  girl,  laughing,  "  and  your 
niece." 

"  Come.     That 's  enough.     Don't  rub  it  in.     Besides, 


H  O  M  E  205 

you're  only  niece  by  courtesy.  By  the  family  tree 
we  're  cousins." 

"  All  right.  I  '11  be  a  cousin  to  you  if  you  like  it 
better,"  remarked  Nance,  Junior,  demurely. 

Alan  had  sprung  out.  He  caught  her  hands  and 
kissed  her.  Her  fresh  mouth  brushed  his  cheek. 

"  Yes,  I  like  it  better,"  he  said.  "  It 's  some  fun  kiss- 
ing a  cousin." 

Nance,  Junior,  snatched  away  her  hands  and  dashed 
into  the  house.  "  Mother,  Clem,  he  's  here.  Unc — 
Cousin  Alan 's  come." 

From  upstairs  came  a  sullen  but  feeble  roar,  as 
though  a  bull  had  bellowed  and  only  echo  had  come 
forth.  From  a  hammock  under  the  trees,  J.  Y.  tumbled 
his  stiffening  limbs  and  with  a  quick  shake  of  his  broad 
shoulders  strode  across  the  lawn.  There  was  a  patter 
of  women's  feet.  Clem  burst  out  of  the  house,  caught 
both  of  Alan's  hands  and  shook  them.  Her  lips  opened 
but  she  said  nothing.  Her  eyes  and  her  heart  were  full 
of  welcome.  Alan  felt  them  speaking  for  her.  Then 
came  Mrs.  J.  Y.  and  J.  Y.  and  Nance,  the  mother  of 
four.  There  arose  a  babel  of  hearty  greetings  but 
through  them  all  could  be  heard  the  rumble  of  the  echo- 
like  bellowing. 

"  Ssh !  "  said  Alan,  holding  up  his  hand.  "  What 's 
that  noise  ? " 

Clem  laughed.  "  It 's  the  Captain,"  she  said. 
"  Listen." 

In  the  silence  the  rumbling  became  vociferation. 
"  Bring  him  up  here.  Bring  him  up  here.  Bring  him 
up  here,  dammit." 


266  HOME 

"  You  'd  better  go  quickly,"  remarked  Nance,  Junior. 
"  He  's  begun  to  swear  and  Mother  does  n't  like  us  to 
hear  it." 

Alan  hurried  into  the  house  and  up  to  the  Captain's 
room.  The  grown-ups  followed  but  stopped  below  and 
waited.  Nance,  Junior,  remained  to  direct  the  chauf- 
feur to  the  barn. 

"  Excuse  me,  miss,"  said  that  worthy,  "  but  Mr. 
Wayne  has  n't  had  a  bite  to  eat  since  seven  this  morn- 
ing. You  might  not  think  to  ask  him,  you  see,  so  I 
thought  I  'd  tell  you." 

"  I  see,"  replied  the  young  lady  and  added  with 
ready  wit  and  a  smile,  "  just  find  the  kitchen  and  tell 
the  cook." 

Alan  found  the  Captain  propped  on  many  pillows. 
His  bulging  eyes  had  the  same  old  glare,  his  close- 
cropped  hair  still  made  an  effort,  though  feeble,  to  in- 
surgency, but  his  corpulence  was  gone.  He  had  col- 
lapsed at  last  and  was  bedridden  after  his  severe  stroke. 
"  Huh !  "  was  his  greeting. 

Alan  sat  down  beside  the  bed.  "  How  do  you  do, 
sir?" 

"  Do  ?  I  do  all  right.  It 's  the  liquor  in  this 
country  that 's  gone  off,  sir.  Corked  whisky.  That 's 
all  that 's  left.  I  '11  show  you,  Alan."  And  he  roared, 
after  a  preliminary  puff,  "  Two  whiskies." 

Mrs.  Wayne  appeared.  "  Now,  Captain,"  she  said 
softly.  "  What 's  this.  Two  at  a  time  ?  You  're  get- 
ting better." 

The  Captain  subsided.     "  One  for  Alan,"  he  grunted. 

The   drinks   came.     Alan   welcomed   his.     He    was 


HOME  267 

tired  and  faint  after  the  long  journey.  The  Captain 
gazed  on  his  own  glass  defiantly  but  ordered  the  maid  to 
set  it  on  the  table  at  his  side.  Alan  waited  long  for 
him  to  take  it  up  and  then  he  saw  that  the  Captain  had 
fallen  asleep.  Alan  sipped  his  drink.  The  Captain 
was  right,  it  was  flavorless.  But  Alan  remembered  that 
he  had  thrown  away  his  last  cigarette  for  the  same 
reason.  He  sighed. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

IN  spite  of  the  Judge  Alix  was  feeling  very  lonely, 
abandoned,  unloved.  She  sat  on  the  little  veranda 
at  the  back  of  the  town  house  and  day-dreamed.  Across 
her  knee  lay  the  morning  paper.  A  word  caught  her 
eye.  Elenic.  Half  unconsciously  she  read :  "  Among 
the  arrivals  by  the  Elenic  .  .  .  Hon.  Percy  Col- 
lingeford." 

Collingef ord !  She  started  to  her  feet  and  then  with 
what  seemed  a  perceptible  click  her  mind  repeated, 
"Elenic."  She  sat  down  again.  The  hand  that  held 
the  paper  was  trembling.  She  sat  for  a  long  time  look- 
ing at  her  hand.  The  telephone  bell  rang  but  she  did 
not  hear  it.  Old  John  came  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  Mr.  Collingeford  telephones  to  know  if  you  are  in 
town." 

A  frightened  gleam  showed  in  Alix'  eyes.  It  passed 
and  a  flame  of  color  came  into  her  pale  cheeks.  "  Yes," 
she  said,  "  I  am  at  home.  Tell  him  I  will  see  him  at 
any  time  to-day." 

Collingeford  lost  no  time.  When  he  arrived  Alix 
was  still  sitting  on  the  veranda.  She  received  him 
there.  He  came  upon  her  with  a  rush  —  like  a  fresh 
breeze.  "  What  luck !  "  he  cried.  "  Really  in  town  on 
a  hot  summer's  day  ?  Which  is  it  ?  Frocks  or  the 

dentist  ? " 

268 


HOME  269 

Alix  rose  and  held  out  her  hand.  A  faint  smile  came 
to  her  face,  lingered  a  moment  and  passed.  "  I  am 
glad  you  have  come,"  she  said  and  then  paused.  Her 
eyes  wavered.  Was  she  glad  he  had  come  ? 

Collingeford  caught  her  mood.  "  Just  what  do  you 
mean  by  that  ? "  he  asked  gravely. 

Alix'  eyes  came  back  to  his  face.  "I  —  I  don't 
know,"  she  stammered. 

They  sat  down.  Collingeford  dropped  his  hat  and 
stick  and  leaned  forward.  A  dull  color  burned  in  his 
cheeks.  "  Alix,"  he  said,  "  has  —  has  anything  hap- 
pened ? " 

"  No,"  said  Alix,  "  not  what  you  mean.  Gerry  is 
alive.  He  has  written.  He  says  he  is  coming  back  — 
sometime." 

Collingeford  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  eyes  flashing. 

"  -Sometime !  Did  he  really  write  that  ?  Some- 
time ?  " 

There  was  a  petulant  look  about  Alix'  mouth  that  be- 
longed to  an  Alix  of  long  ago.  She  tried  to  shake  it 
off  with  her  mood.  "  No,"  she  said  dully,  after  a  pause. 
"  He  did  n't  write  just  that  but  it  amounts  to  the  same 
thing.  He  wrote  but  he  has  not  come." 

Collingeford  paced  up  and  down  the  little  veranda, 
his  arms  crossed  and  one  hand  pulling  nervously  at  his 
mustache.  He  came  to  a  stop  before  Alix  and  stood 
looking  down  at  her,  his  eyes  eager  but  questioning. 
"  Well  ? "  he  said. 

Alix  made  a  little  gesture  of  despair  with  her  two 
hands.  "I  — I  don't  know,"  she  repeated.  Then, 
quite  quietly,  she  began  to  cry. 


270  HOME 

Collingeford  caugLt  her  hands  and  drew  her  to  her 
feet.  He  put  his  arms  around  her.  She  laid  her  head 
against  his  shoulder  and  sobbed.  Collingeford's  heart 
was  beating  furiously.  His  arms  trembled.  He  longed 
to  strain  her  to  him  but  he  only  held  her  firmly  and 
patted  her  back.  Some  instinct  told  him  that  this  was 
not  the  moment  of  possession. 

When  Alix  could  talk  he  knew  that  his  instinct  was 
true.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  "  what  a  little  beast  I  am !  Un- 
fair to  you,  unfair  to  myself." 

She  disengaged  herself  and  sat  down.  With  a  tiny 
square  of  cambric  she  dabbed  at  her  eyes. 

"  Here,"  said  Collingeford,  and  held  out  a  big  fresh 
handkerchief. 

Alix  took  it  and  used  it  solemnly.  Then  its  bulk 
struck  a  sudden  "note  of  humor.  She  laughed  and  Col- 
lingeford smiled.  As  she  gave  back  the  handkerchief 
she  pressed  Collingeford's  hand.  "  I  have  been  a  little 
beast." 

"  No"  said  Collingeford  gravely,  "  you  have  been  un- 
speakably lovable." 

"  It  would  have  been  that  if  I  loved  you.  But  I 
don't.  That 's  why  I  Ve  been  a  beast.  To  make  you 
think—" 

Collingeford  interrupted  her.  "  You  made  me  think 
nothing.  Somehow  I  knew.  I  knew  it  was  just  lone- 
liness running  over  from  a  full  heart." 

Alix  nodded.  "  How  wonderful  of  you  to  under- 
stand," she  said.  "  Lonely.  Yes.  I  Ve  been  terribly 
lonely.  Never  before  so  lonely." 

"You  shall  not  be  lonely  any  more,"  said  Collinge- 


HOME  271 

ford.  "  Every  day  I  '11  come  and  talk  to  you,  take  you 
out  —  anything.  I  'm  yours." 

Alix  shook  her  head  from  side  to  side.  Her  eyes 
refused  him. 

"  Alix,"  cried  Collingeford,  hurt,  "  don't  you  want 
me  even  for  a  friend  ?  " 

"  Don't  mistake  what  I  'm  going  to  say,  will  you  ? " 
said  Alix. 

Collingeford  shook  his  head. 

"  Gerry  is  coming  back,"  went  on  Alix,  "  but  —  I 
don't  know  what  he  is  bringing  back.  Perhaps  it  is 
something  he  can't  share  with  me;  perhaps  it  is  some- 
thing I  do  not  want.  When  you  went  away  I  had  only 
faith;  now  I  have  only  doubt.  Such  a  big  doubt. 
That 's  why  I  said  to  you,  *  I  don't  know.'  And  while 
I  don't  know  I  will  not  have  you  even  for  a  friend." 
Alix  flushed  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  Collingeford's  face. 
"  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

Collingeford's  eyes  were  glowing.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
"  I  think  I  do.  You  mean  that  perhaps  —  later  on  — 
you  will  send  for  me." 

"  Perhaps  —  only  perhaps,"  whispered  Alix. 

Collingeford  picked  up  his  hat  and  stick.  He  took 
Alix's  hand  and  held  it  long.  She  would  not  look  up. 
He  stooped  and  kissed  her  fingers. 

"  I  shall  be  waiting,"  he  said. 


CHAPTEE  XXXVII 

THE  peripatetic,  pathogenic  agent  of  malarial 
fevers  possesses  the  prime  attribute  of  a  bad 
penny  —  it  comes  back.  Alan  had  often  fatted  himself 
to  receive  the  prodigal  and  he  was  not  now  at  a  loss 
to  account  for  the  sudden  lassitude,  the  deadened  palate 
and  the  truant  sense  of  smell  that  had  come  upon  him. 
He  turned  to  Mrs.  J.  Y.  "  I  'm  afraid  I  '11  have  to  lie 
down.  I  hate  to  be  a  nuisance  but  I  Ve  got  a  touch  of 
fever."  To  the  initiated  "  a  touch  of  fever  "  means 
anything  from  a  slight  indisposition  to  a  knock-out  blow 
delivered  below  the  belt.  It  is  the  sole  phrase  of  con- 
fession recognized  by  the  malarial  cult.  Happily  for 
Alan,  the  expression  on  this  occasion  was  no  euphemism. 
He  was  suffering  from  a  touch  of  fever  and  nothing 
more,  brought  on  by  too  continued  exertion.  He  was 
shown  to  his  room,  his  old  room  with  its  old-fashioned, 
many-paned  windows,  its  enormous  closet  and,  under 
recent  coatings  of  white  enamel  paint,  the  many  marks 
with  which  in  boyhood  he  and  his  forebears  had  branded 
the  ancient  wood-work. 

A  flutter  and  then  a  sigh  of  disappointment  went 
through  Maple  House  at  Alan's  immediate  eclipse. 
The  children  foresaw  an  order  for  silence  or  a  veto  on 
the  afternoon's  excursion  to  the  lake.  J.  Y.  became 
restless  and  wandered  noiselessly  about  from  room  to 

272 


HOME  273 

room.  Clem  sat  in  the  great  window  and  dreamed  and 
listened  for  Alan's  bell.  She  would  not  go  to  the  lake. 
The  children  were  solemnly  grave  and  then  giggling  by 
fits  and  starts. 

The  Eltons  had  come  back  from  abroad.  Prom  Elm 
House  Cousin  Frances  Elton,  commonly  known  as  Tom, 
ghort  for  torn-boy,  came  racing  across  the  lawn  waving 
towel  and  bathing  clothes  and  in  a  high  treble  giving  a 
creditable  imitation  of  an  Indian  war-whoop.  At  Tom's 
cry  the  children  stampeded  on  to  the  veranda  with  sib- 
ilant cries  of,  "  Sshsh !  "  Mrs.  J.  Y.  looked  at  Nance 
and  Nance  smiled  resignedly.  They  put  away  their 
work,  ordered  the  wagonette  and  the  colts  —  colts  no 
longer,  alas,  save  in  name  —  and  departed  with  a  wagon- 
load  of  suppressed  youth.  From  Long  Lane  floated 
back  peals  of  young  laughter,  breaking  bounds  as  the 
overhanging  trees  hid  the  Hill  from  view. 

Clem  sat  on  the  vast  window-seat  and  toyed  with  a 
book.  J.  Y.  came  and  dropped  down  beside  her. 
"  Well,  Clem,  he  's  come  back." 

Clem  nodded.  "  Are  you  sure  he  does  n't  want  any- 
thing, Uncle  John?  He  hasn't  had  a  thing  to  eat 
since  seven  o'clock  this  morning." 

Alan's  bell  tinkled.  Clem  started  to  her  feet  and 
then  sat  down  again.  "  You  'd  better  go."  But  when 
J.  Y.  strode  off  she  followed. 

"  Why  is  the  house  so  quiet  ?  Is  it  on  account  of  the 
Captain  ?  "  asked  Alan. 

"  Bless  you,  no.  The  Captain  sleeps  for  a  week  at 
a  time.  The  children  have  gone  over  to  the  lake." 

"  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  like  their  noises 


274  HOME 

—  they  're  new.  There 's  nothing  really  the  matter 
with  me  except  that  I  've  got  to  take  things  in  turn,  and 
lying  still  and  sweating  comes  first.  After  that,  per- 
haps to-morrow,  I  'm  going  to  eat.  The  penultimate 
act  on  my  list  is  a  cigarette  and  the  ultimate  is  to  get 
up  in  the  old  belfry  and  yell."  He  turned  over  and 
sank  his  head  into  the  pillows. 

"  All  right,  my  boy,"  said  J.  Y.,  smiling.  "  There  's 
only  Clem  and  myself  here  and  we  '11  go  and  try  to 
make  noises  like  the  children."  He  came  out  of  the 
door  in  time  to  catch  sight  of  Clem's  skirt  as  it  whisked 
around  the  corner  of  the  hall.  He  followed  and  found 
her  already  seated  at  the  piano.  Her  fingers  wandered 
over  the  keys  and  then  her  soft,  full  voice  broke  out  in 
one  old  song  after  another.  She  was  happy  because 
she  felt  that  singing  she  was  with  Alan. 

Alan  stirred  in  his  bed  and  listened.  He  determined 
that  to-morrow  he  must  be  well.  Robbed  of  this  after- 
noon, he  was  being  robbed  of  half  of  life.  He  cursed 
the  fever  and  then,  as  he  felt  how  near  Clem's  voice 
brought  her  to  him,  he  blessed  it. 

At  night  when  all  the  rest  of  the  household  had  gone 
to  bed,  J.  Y.  softly  opened  Alan's  door  and  looked  in. 
Alan  was  awake  and  nodded.  J.  Y.  came  in  and  pot- 
tered about  the  room.  He  rolled  a  bit  of  paper  into 
an  ampler  shade  and  further  veiled  the  night  lamp. 
The  lines  in  J.  Y.'s  rugged  face  were  softened  to  lines 
of  sweetness.  He  asked  if  there  were  nothing  he  could 
do  and  then  turned  to  leave  the  room.  With  his  hand 
on  the  door,  he  paused  and  smiled  down  on  Alan.  "  My 
>  Jou  have  been  far,  far  away." 


HOME  275 

"  Far  away,"  replied  Alan  drowsily,  "  but  I  have 
come  back." 

The  bracing  air  of  Red  Hill  and  a  long  night's  sleep 
enabled  Alan  to  keep  his  word  with  himself.  He  was 
up  and  out  on  the  day  following  his  arrival  but  he  still 
felt  delightfully  lazy  and  pitifully  weak.  Clem  took 
charge  of  him.  First  she  tried  to  settle  him  in  a  ham- 
mock with  many  pillows  but  Alan  shrank  from  the 
hammock.  They  spread  rugs  instead  in  a  nook  under 
the  trees  and  Alan  stretched  himself  out  amid  a  riot  of 
many  colored  cushions  while  Clem  sat  close  by  in  a  low 
rocking  chair  and  talked  and  read  and  talked. 

Talking  or  reading,  Clem  was  a  source  of  unvarying 
delight  to  Alan.  Was  it  possible  that  one  could  live 
twenty  years  in  an  old  world,  rub  elbows  with  life  for 
twenty  years,  and  remain  so  fresh,  so  untainted?  His 
own  life  rose  up  before  him  and  mocked  at  him.  Was 
it  possible  that  one  could  live  thirty  years  in  this  same 
world  and  be  so  old?  He  shrugged  a  shoulder  petu- 
lantly. He  would  not  think  —  he  refused  to  think 
while  he  was  so  weak. 

When  Clem  talked,  it  was  like  a  child  dreaming  aloud : 
when  she  was  silent,  one  felt  the  presence  of  womanhood, 
wise  with  the  unconscious  accumulations  of  generations 
and  unabashed.  When  Clem  talked,  Alan  was  at  ease 
but  when  she  was  silent,  he  was  moved  —  troubled.  A 
scarred  man  may  play  with  a  child  and  no  harm  to 
either.  He  can  detach  himself  from  his  past  as  from 
the  child  and  at  a  safe  moral  distance  turn  to  watch  its 
unconscious  gambols.  But  with  a  woman  it  is  different. 
Womanhood  is  a  force ;  its  mission  to  embrace,  to  sacri- 


276  HOME 

fice.  It  is  unreasoning.  Like  fundamental  man  it  de- 
mands a  god  and  worships  the  god  that  comes  to  its 
need.  Alan  felt  this  force  hovering  in  Clem's  silences 
and  was  troubled. 

The  subjectivity  of  a  sick  man  disarms  woman;  she 
knows  she  is  safe  and  abandons  her  weapons  of  attack 
and  defense  as  long  as  the  invalid  is  taken  up  with  the 
state  of  his  insides.  Clem  was  unaffected,  even  tender, 
with  Alan  as  long  as  he  was  weak  but  as  his  strength 
returned  to  him  she  withdrew,  one  by  one  and  gently, 
the  intimate  attentions  a  woman  accords  to  babes  and 
the  related  helpless.  But  there  was  nothing  absolute  in 
her  withdrawal ;  it  was  more  a  temptation  than  a  denial, 
born  of  woman's  innate  desire  to  be  pursued.  While 
Alan  was  merely  convalescent  it  contained  a  suppressed 
gaiety,  half  demure,  half  mischievous,  but  when  his 
full  strength  came  back  and  he  failed  to  pursue,  the 
gaiety  arrested  itself,  turned  into  a  questioning  wistful- 
ness  and  ended  in  the  secret  shame  and  blushes  of  the 
repulsed  and  undesired. 

Clem  saw  Alan  build  a  barrier  against  her,  a  barrier 
of  little  things  each  insignificant  in  itself  but  each  lend- 
ing and  borrowing  the  strength  of  accumulation.  Alan 
spent  hours  with  the  old  Captain,  walked,  rode  and 
talked  with  J.  Y.  and  the  Judge.  Between  them,  J.  Y. 
and  the  Judge  had  fixed  up  Lieber's  affair  and  Alan  had 
cabled. 

In  the  midst  of  women  Alan  seemed  to  be  able  to  for- 
get woman  —  to  forget  her  intentionally.  There  was 
nothing  pointed  in  his  avoidance.  He  kept  his  distance 
from  Alix  and  Nance  and  Jane  Elton  in  the  same 


HOME  277 

measure  as  from  Clem.  There  was  thus  none  of  the 
single  avoidance  of  the  shy  swain  who  lavishes  attentions 
on  all  but  her  whom  he  would  most  dearly  sue.  Clem, 
least  vain  of  beautiful  women,  sat  long  hours  before  her 
glass.  Never  before  had  the  charms  it  revealed  been 
questioned,  never  had  she  been  forced  to  close  in  the 
ranks  and  call  up  the  reserves  and  now  she  felt  at  a  loss, 
unaccustomed  to  the  ready  moves  of  the  coquette. 
Clem  dropped  her  face  in  her  hands  and  cried. 


CHAPTER  XXXVin 

CLEM'S  was  not  the  only  troubled  heart  on  the 
Hill.  At  The  Firs  Mrs.  Lansing  moved  rest- 
lessly from  room  to  room  and  stopped  often  to  read  and 
re-read  a  crumpled  note  —  Gerry's  note  to  Alix. 

Alix  was  still  in  town.  Mrs.  Lansing  had  written 
to  her  and  then  wired.  Alix  replied  telling  her  not  to 
come,  that  she  wished  to  he  alone.  For  hours  at  a  time 
Mrs.  Lansing  replaced  the  nurse  at  Gerry,  Junior's, 
side.  He  helped  her.  She  felt  that  he  could  help  Alix. 

She  was  almost  glad  when  he  developed  some  trifling 
ailment  becoming  to  his  years.  She  wired  again  and 
this  time  Alix  came,  frightened.  Alix  was  like  a  wilted 
flower  but  she  braced  herself  until  Gerry,  Junior,  recov- 
ered into  his  healthy  self.  Then  she  drooped  once  more 
and  refused  to  be  comforted. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  Alan,  Alix's  trouble  would 
have  cast  a  gloom  over  the  rest  of  Red  Hill,  but  it  was 
known  that  Alan  had  sought  out  Mrs.  Lansing  and  told 
her  that  not  even  he  knew  just  how  Gerry's  battle  stood, 
but  that  he  did  know  that  there  was  a  battle  and  that 
Gerry  would  surely  come  back  as  soon  as  he  had  fought 
his  way  clear. 

So  the  Hill  in  general  went  almost  untroubled  on  its 
way  trying  to  forget  that  it  was  still  awaiting  a  ful- 
filment and  even  Alix  began  to  glean  a  little  comfort 

278 


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from  the  thought  that  hope  was  but  deferred.  Her 
heart  was  sick,  her  faith  weak,  but  hope  still  lived. 
She  clung  through  the  long  days  to  Gerry,  Junior,  and 
waited. 

At  Maple  House  the  beating  of  young  hearts 
amounted  to  a  din  but  it  was  suddenly  stilled  by  a  day 
of  drenching  rain.  After  the  very  tame  excitement  of 
seeing  J.  Y.  and  the  Judge  off  for  the  city,  gloom  settled 
in  the  faces  of  the  children.  Cousin  Tom,  in  rubber 
boots  and  coat,  came  down  the  road  from  Elm  House 
to  find  company  for  misery.  The  barn  was  requisi- 
tioned and  became  the  scene  of  a  subdued  frolic  but  it 
afforded  meager  diversion.  The  hay  was  not  in  yet, 
the  empty  lofts  were  dreary.  In  the  afternoon  Mrs. 
J.  Y.  was  besieged  to  surrender  the  house  and  finally 
did.  Alan  had  gone  to  his  room  and  closed  the  door. 
The  Captain  was  plunged  in  invulnerable  slumber. 

Somebody  rapped  at  Alan's  door  and  he  called, 
"  Come  in."  The  door  opened  and  revealed  Nance, 
Junior.  Behind  her  was  a  giggling,  whispering  throng. 
The  spirit  of  fun  danced  in  Nance's  eyes.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed  and  her  golden  head  was  in  disarray. 
"  Oh,  Cousin  Alan,"  she  cried,  "  Grandma  's  given  us 
leave  for  Hide  and  Seek  and  we  're  all  going  to  play 
except  Mother  and  Grandma  and  the  Captain.  Please 
come  too,  Cousin  Alan." 

Prom  behind  her  came  a  modified  echo,  "  Pleath  do, 
Couthin  Alan."  Alan  smiled  and  laid  down  his  book. 
"  All  right,"  he  laughed. 

Maple  House  was  a  rambling  abode  that  had  grown 
and  spread  like  the  giant  maples  that  sheltered  it.  In 


280  HOME 

what  age  the  Captain  had  demanded  a  wing  or  some  by- 
gone Nance  a  nursery  for  her  children,  was  chronicled 
in  the  annals  of  the  house  itself,  to  he  revealed  only  to 
the  searching,  architectural  eye.  The  key  to  the  ram- 
bling structure  lay  in  the  thick-walled  dining-room,  the 
parlor,  one  bedroom  and  the  kitchen. 

From  the  nucleus  of  these  four  rooms  Maple  House 
had  grown,  imposed  and  superimposed,  until  it  over- 
flowed the  arbitrary  bourne  of  kitchens  and  front  doors 
and  like  some  mounded  vine  rippled  off  on  all  sides,  in 
vast  living-room,  sunny  nurseries  and  a  broken  fringe 
of  broad  verandas.  There  were  nooks  that  were  satis- 
fied and  held  back  from  further  encroachment  and 
there  were  outstanding  corners  that  jutted  boldly  out 
over  the  sloping  lawns  and  threatened  a  further 
raid. 

Inside,  the  paths  of  daily  life  ran  clearly  enough 
through  the  maze  but  on  their  flanks  hung  many  a 
somber  den  for  ambush  or  retreat.  Cavernous  closets, 
shadowy  corners,  lumbered  attics,  and-  half-forgotten 
interstices  of  discarded  space  opened  dark  gorges  to  the 
intrepid,  and  threatened  the  nervous  and  unwary  with 
what  they  might  bring  forth.  The  gods  of  childhood's 
games  themselves  could  not  have  builded  a  better  scene 
for  that  most  palpitating  of  sports,  Hide  and  Seek  on  a 
rainy  day. 

Alan  soon  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  game.  He 
found  himself  recollecting  things  about  Maple  House 
that  he  had  more  than  half  forgotten ;  strange  by-ways 
under  the  roof;  a  vacant  chamber,  turned  into  a  trunk 
room  because  one  by  one  it  had  been  robbed  of  its 


HOME  281 

windows ;  and  lastly  the  Little  Attic  that  had  heen,  as  it 
were,  left  behind  a  wall. 

Through  this  dreamland  of  a  hundred  children  flitted 
the  brood  of  the  day,  marshaled  rather  breathlessly  by 
Clem  and  Alan.  Anxious  whispers,  the  scurrying  of 
lightly  shod  feet,  then  a  sudden  silence  but  for  the  flute- 
like  counting  of  some  juvenile  It,  were  followed  by 
sudden  screams  and  a  wild  race  for  the  goal.  Maple 
House  had  never  countenanced  the  effete  and  diluted 
sport  of  I  Spy;  it  was  all  for  Hide  and  Seek  where 
you  had  to  hold  your  man  when  found  or  beat  him  to 
the  goal. 

Great  was  the  excitement  when  the  Littlest  It  of  all 
caught  Cousin  Alan  by  a  tackle  around  the  ankle  that 
spoke  a  volume  of  promise  for  the  Littlest  It's  academic 
career  and  brought  a  glow  of  achievement  to  his  perspir- 
ing face.  Alan  was  placed  at  the  newel  at  the  foot  of  the 
great  staircase  and  duly  admonished  in  treble  voices  not 
to  look.  The  treble  voices  rained  excited  instructions 
on  him,  carried  away  by  youth's  confidence  in  its  ability 
to  teach  its  grandmother  how  to  suck  eggs.  Alan  started 
to  count  slowly  in  sonorous  tones.  With  a  last  shriek 
and  the  patter  of  many  feet  the  trebles  faded  away  into 
silence. 

Alan  crept  stealthily  up  the  stairs.  Out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye  he  caught  sight  of  the  twitching  jumpers  of 
the  Littlest  who  was  too  fat  to  quite  fit  the  retreat  he 
had  chosen.  But  Alan  did  not  quite  see  until  it  was  too 
late.  The  Littlest  exploded  the  vast  breath  he  had  been 
holding  in  and  plunged  headlong  down  the  stairs.  As 
he  rolled  by  the  newel  he  stuck  out  a  sturdy  arm  and 


282  HOME 

held  fast.  He  shouted  a  pean  of  victory  and  once  more 
palpitating  silence  fell  on  the  house. 

Alan  wondered  if  he  could  find  the  way  to  the  Little 
Attic.  He  hurried  along  the  twisted  halls,  up  a  tiny 
flight  of  steps,  turned,  dived  through  a  low,  narrow 
tunnel  and  threw  open  the  long-forgotten  door.  It  was 
as  though  he  had  suddenly  opened  a  portal  on  his  own 
childhood.  A  great  pensioned  rocking  chair  held  the 
middle  of  the  floor  as  within  his  ken  it  always  had  held 
it.  Ancient  garments  hung  from  pegs  on  the  walls  and 
from  hooks  on  the  rafters.  A  box  or  two  and  more  dis- 
abled furniture  littered  the  floor.  The  whole  was 
faintly  lit  up  by  the  light  from  a  little  dormer  window. 
Nothing  stirred.  Alan  drew  a  long  breath.  He  was 
not  disappointed.  No  one  had  thought  to  come  here 
but  himself. 

Suddenly  a  bit  of  the  pendent  wardrobe  was  flung 
aside  and  an  apparition  dashed  for  the  door.  Alan 
sprang  in  front  of  it,  threw  his  arms  around  it,  held  it 
tight.  It  struggled,  laughed,  ceased  to  struggle,  and 
looked  up  as  Alan  looked  down.  Clem's  face  was  very 
near  to  his.  Her  body,  still  throbbing  with  excitement, 
was  in  his  arms.  Alan  felt  such  a  rioting  surge  in  his 
blood  as  he  had  never  known  before.  He  wanted  to  kiss 
Clem.  He  felt  that  he  must  kiss  her,  that  there  was 
not  strength  enough  left  in  him  to  do  anything  else. 
Then  his  eyes  met  hers  and  he  forgot  himself  and  re- 
membered Clem.  His  soul  cried,  "  Sacrilege,"  and  he 
dropped  his  arms  from  about  her  and  stepped  back. 

Clem  stood  before  him,  dazed.  She  was  in  her  stock- 
inged feet.  In  each  hand  she  held  a  little  slipper.  Her 


HOME  283 

eyes  were  big  and  full  of  the  soft  reproach  of  the 
mortally  wounded.  Alan  felt  ashamed  and  looked 
away.  He  had  to  break  the  silence.  "  Well,  you  're 
caught,"  he  said  lamely. 

Clem  dropped  one  slipper,  threw  up  her  hand  and 
brushed  the  disordered  hair  from  her  forehead.  "  Yes, 
I  'm  caught,"  she  said  and  her  lip  trembled  on  the 
words. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIX 

O!N"E  day  in  midsummer  Alan,  to  his  disgust,  was 
summoned  peremptorily  by  McDale  &  McDale. 
Half  an  hour's  consultation  was  all  they  required  and 
Alan  was  pleased  to  find  as  he  left  their  offices  that  he 
still  had  plenty  of  time  to  catch  the  early  train  back  to 
Red  Hill.  There  were  only  two  afternoon  trains  for 
that  difficult  goal. 

As  he  strolled  up  the  Avenue  he  was  arrested  by  the 
sight  of  a  tall  figure  standing  on  the  curb  watching  the 
swirl  of  the  traffic.  The  figure  was  dressed  in  a  heavy 
whipcord  suit  and  a  Stetson  hat,  uncompromisingly 
domed  in  the  very  form  in  which  it  had  been  blocked 
by  the  makers.  A  street  gamin  yelled,  "  Hi  I  fellers, 
look  what 's  got  away  from  Buffalo  Bill  I  "  Kemp 
gazed  sad-eyed  but  unmoved  over  his  drooping  mus- 
taches, doubtless  mourning  the  passing  of  the  shooting 
iron  and  the  consequent  unanswerable  affronts  of  a 
fostered  civilization. 

Alan  elbowed  his  way  across  the  stream  of  pedestrians 
and  clutched  him  by  the  arm.  Kemp  whirled  around 
as  if  to  meet  attack  but  smiled  when  he  saw  Alan's 
faca  "  I  was  jest  calculatin'  on  roundin'  you  up,"  he 
drawled. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from  ?     Where  are  you  off 
284 


HOME  285 

to  ? "  cried  Alan  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer  he 
hailed  a  cab,  hustled  Kemp  into  it,  and  ordered  it  to 
his  club.  He  forgot  his  early  train. 

In  the  club  lobby  Kemp  surrendered  his  hat 
reluctantly  to  the  ready  attendant  and  followed  Alan 
across  soft  carpets  to  a  quiet  corner  where  two  enormous 
chairs  seemed  to  be  making  confidences  to  each  other. 
One  could  imagine  them  aggrieved  at  being  interrupted 
and  sat  upon. 

"  Well,  Kemp,"  said  Alan,  "  I  'm  glad  to  see  you. 
What 's  yours  ?  " 

"  Rye  'nd  a  chaser,"  said  Kemp. 

"  Same  for  me,  waiter,"  ordered  Alan.  "  Now, 
Kemp,  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  I  jest  blowed  in  from  Lieber's,  Mr.  Wayne,  and 
I  'm  headed  West." 

"  How  's  Lieber  and  where  's  Gerry  ?  Did  Lieber 
get  my  cable  ?  " 

Kemp  looked  sadly  out  through  the  window. 
"  Lieber  's  dead." 

"Dead?     Lieber  dead?" 

Kemp  nodded.  "  I  found  him  with  everything  fixed 
for  kickin'  the  bucket.  He  knew  what  was  the  matter 
but  he  did  n't  tell  me  what  it  was.  Said  it  had  been 
comin'  on  him  for  some  while  an'  thet  the'  wa'n't  no 
he'p  for  it.  But  he  got  your  cable,  Mr.  Wayne,  and  he 
wanted  I  should  tell  you  that  what  you  done  wa'n't 
wasted.  He  said  there  wa'n't  nothin'  thet  could  he'p 
him  through  the  way  that  cable  did.  He  said  it  was  the 
passpo't  he  'd  been  waitin'  for  an'  thet  you  wa'n't  to 
think  it  come  too  late  because  he  reckoned  he  was 


286  HOME 

goin'  to  use  it.     Said  it  kinder  cleared  his  trail  for 
him.     Them  was  all  the  things  he  said  I  should  tell 

you." 

Kemp  stopped  talking  and  downed  his  drink.  Alan 
sat  silent  and  thoughtful.  Lieber  was  gone  and  made 
a  gap  in  his  life  that  he  never  knew  had  been  filled.  He 
wanted  to  know  more.  He  turned  to  Kemp.  "  Well  ?  " 

"  You  remember  the  joa  tree  at  Lieber's,  Mr.  Wayne  ? 
One  o'  the  lonesomest  trees  on  earth,  I  reckon,  except 
when  the  Booganviller  comes  out  an'  then  it  's  a  happy 
mountain  o'  red  pu'ple  that  kind  o'  lights  up  the  hull 
desert." 

Alan  nodded. 

"  Well,  then,  you  remember  the  big  boulder  of  gray- 
wacke  under  the  tree.  That 's  Lieber's  headstone.  He 
had  a  mason  up  from  the  coast  and  he  made  us  carry 
him  out  under  the  tree  to  watch  the  man  work.  He 
give  him  a  model  cut  into  a  boa'd  to  copy  f  m.  I  'm 
some  reader  but  them  words  beat  me  every  time.  I 
corralled  'em  on  a  bit  o'  paper  though,  an'  here  they 
be." 

Kemp  drew  a  slip  of  paper  from  the  same  old  wallet 
that  housed  "  The  Purple  City."  He  handed  it  to  Alan. 
"  Wish  you  'd  put  me  on,"  he  said.  "  All  I  know  is  it 
ain't  American  an'  it  ain't  Mex." 

The  words  on  the  slip  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
printed  by  a  child  with  painstaking  care.  Alan  stared 
as  he  saw  them.  "  Qui  de  nous  n'a  pas  eu  sa  terre 
promise,  son  jour  d'extase,  et  sa  fin  en  exil?"  he  read 
slowly  to  himself  and  then,  with  his  eyes  far  away, 
translated  for  Kemp,  "  '  Who  of  us  has  not  had  his 


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promised  land,  his  day  of  ecstasy,  and  his  end  in 
exile  ?  >  " 

Kemp  nodded  and  held  out  his  hand  for  the  slip  of 
paper.  He  put  it  back  in  his  wallet  and  said,  "  I  sup- 
pose the  feller  thet  wrote  that  was  thinkin'  mostly  of  a 
man's  mind  but  when  it  comes  to  facts  them  words  don't 
fit  Lieber.  He  got  more  exile  than  was  comin'  to  him ; 
it  et  up  the  ecstasy  an'  most  of  the  promised  land.  But 
I  don'  know.  They 's  lots  of  folks  that  needs  to  worry 
more'n  Lieber  over  crossin'  the  divide." 

They  sat  thoughtful  for  some  time  and  then  Alan 
remembered  Red  Hill.  "Where  are  you  staying, 
Kemp  ? " 

"  Astor  House." 

Alan  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Come  on,"  he  said. 
"  We  've  got  to  hustle.  We  've  just  got  time  to  rush 
down  and  get  your  bag." 

"  What  for  ?  "  drawled  Kemp. 

"  I  was  bound  for  our  place  out  in  the  country  when 
I  found  you.  We  Ve  got  just  forty  minutes  to  catch 
the  train.  You  're  coming  with  me." 

A  wary  look  came  into  Kemp's  eyes.  "  Your  folks 
out  there,  Mr.  Wayne  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Alan  and  then  added,  "  Kemp,  do  you 
take  me  for  a  man  that  would  steer  you  up  against  a 
game  you  don't  hold  cards  in  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Kemp,  "  I  don't,"  and  then  found  himself 
hatted  and  hurried  into  a  taxi  before  he  could  further 
protest. 

If  Alan  had  any  qualms  about  introducing  Kemp  to 
Red  Hill  they  were  soon  allayed.  Kemp  was  duly  pre- 


288  HOME 

sented  on  the  lawn  at  Maple  House.  To  everything  in 
petticoats  he  took  off  his  hat  and  said  "  ma'am  "  but  be- 
fore the  men  he  stood  hatted  and  vouchsafed  a  short 
"  Howdy !  "  accompanied  by  a  handshake  where  it  was 
invited. 

Strange  to  Kemp  must  have  seemed  the  group  of 
which  he  found  himself  the  center.  At  a  tea-table 
under  the  biggest  maple  sat  Mrs.  J.  Y.  She  called 
Kemp  and  motioned  to  a  chair  beside  her.  Kemp  let 
his  lanky  frame  down  slowly  on  the  fragile  structure, 
took  off  his  domed  hat  and  laid  it  on  the  grass  at  his 
side.  For  an  instant  Mrs.  J.  Y.  fixed  her  soft,  myopic 
gaze  on  him  and  then  looked  away.  Clem  brought  him 
a  cup  of  tea  and  a  biscuit.  Kemp  held  the  cup  and 
saucer  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand  and  looked  dubiously 
at  their  contents.  "  Would  you  like  something  else, 
Mr.  Kemp  ? "  asked  Mrs.  J.  Y.  softly.  "  Some  other 
drink,  I  mean  ?  " 

Kemp's  quick  eye  roved  over  the  group.  He  saw  that 
nobody  was  taking  anything  but  tea  and  at  the  same 
time  he  noted  gratefully  that  nobody  was  watching 
him.  The  Judge  and  J.  Y.  were  talking  to  each  other. 
Nance,  Junior,  and  Cousin  Tom  were  kneeling  before 
Gerry,  Junior,  stolen  for  a  short  hour  from  Alix.  That 
dwarf  Moloch,  arrayed  in  starchy  white  that  stuck  out 
like  a  ballet  skirt  above  his  sturdy  fat  legs,  was  gravely 
devouring  a  sacrifice  of  cake.  Charlie  Sterling  lay  full 
length  on  the  ground  while  his  brood,  with  shrill  cries 
at  his  frequent  eruptions,  buried  and  reburied  him  with 
sofa  pillows.  Nance,  Alan  and  Clem  sipped  tea  and 
cheered  on  the  children's  efforts. 


HOME  289 

Kemp  turned  a  twinkling  eye  on  Mrs.  J.  Y.  "  I 
ain't  sayin',  ma'am,  thet  this  mixture  is  my  usual 
bev'rage  but  a  man  don't  expect  to  have  his  usual  handed 
down  f 'm  a  pulpit  and  likewise  I  see  no  call  for  folks 
turnin'  their  front  lawns  into  a  bar." 

Kemp  could  feel  a  scene;  his  strange  nature  was 
moved  at  finding  itself  rubbing  elbows  with  such  a  group 
and  when  Kemp  was  moved  he  always  talked  to  hide 
his  emotion.  Mrs.  J.  Y.'s  kindly  eyes  led  him  on,  made 
him  feel  weirdly  akin  to  these  quiet,  contented  men  and 
women  and  clean-frocked,  rosy-cheeked  children  frolick- 
ing against  the  peaceful  setting  of  shady  trees,  old  lawns 
and  the  rambling  house  that  staidly  watched  them  like 
some  motherly  hen,  wings  out-spread,  ever  ready  to 
brood  and  shelter. 

Kemp's  eyes  left  Mrs.  J.  Y.'s  face  and  swept  over 
the  scene  again.  "  Speakin'  of  bars,"  he  went  on  in  his 
soft  drawl,  "  I  don't  think  a  missus  ever  has  no  call 
to  handle  drinks  over  an'  above  what  goes  in  'nd  out  of 
a  milk-pail,  which  is  n't  drink  in  a  manner  o'  speakin'. 
I  can't  rightly  rec'llect  that  I  ever  seen  a  missus  leanin' 
over  either  side  of  a  bar  in  this  country  but  I  've  strayed 
•some  from  the  home  fence  an'  you  may  be  su'prised, 
Mis'  Wayne,  to  know  thet  they 's  lands  where  no  one 
ain't  never  heered  tell  on  a  barman  an'  where  barmaids 
is  some  commoner'n  the  milkin'  brand." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Mrs.  J.  Y.  encouragingly. 

"  Sho'  thing,"  replied  Kemp ;  "  I  seen  'em.  I  won't 
forget  the  fust  time  because  I  was  consid'able  embar- 
rassed. •!  missed  a  steamer  in  Noo  Yawk  an'  the  firm 
was  in  a  hurry  so  they  sent  me  acrost  to  S'uthampton 


290  HOME 

an'  while  I  was  waitin'  for  the  Brazil  boat  a  feller  I  'd 
picked  up  on  boa'd  showed  me  around  some.  Well,  it 
wa'n't  long  before  he  corralled  me,  quite  willing  in  a 
bar.  I  pulled  off  my  hat  and  he  says,  '  Why  d'you  take 
off  yo'  hat?'  and  I  says,  'Why  don't  you  take  off 
yourn  ?  Don't  you  see  they  's  a  lady  hea'  ? '  Then  he 
bust  out  laughin'  and  everybody  that  was  nea'  enough 
to  hea'  bust  out  laughin'  an'  the  missus  behind  the  bar 
laughed  too  though  somehow  it  did  n't  sound  as  if  she 
laughed  because  she  could  n't  he'p  it." 

Kemp  paused  to  blush  over  the  memory.  He  did  not 
notice  that  the  Judge  and  J.  Y.  had  drawn  quietly 
nearer  and  that  the  rest  of  the  group  of  grown-ups  were 
intent  on  his  words.  "  They 's  times,"  he  continued, 
"  when  it 's  fittin'  that  a  man  should  be  without  shootin' 
irons  an'  that  was  one  of  'em.  I  can't  rightly  say  what 
would  have  happened  but  guessin's  easy.  When  he  was 
through  laughin'  the  feller  that  was  showin'  me  around 
slapped  me  on  the  back  and  sez,  '  That  ain't  no  lady ; 
it's  a  barmaid.'  An'  then  they  all  laughed  some  mo' 
and  the  missus  just  kind  o'  laughed  an'  I  mought  'a' 
been  dreamin'  but  I  thought  I  seen  a  look  in  her  eyes 
thet  says  she  was  n't  laughin'  inside  at  all.  Ever  sence 
then  I  've  been  of  opinion  that  a  missus  has  no  call  to 
handle  drinks  an'  I  ce'tainly  hope  I  '11  never  see  one 
a-doin'  of  it  under  the  home  fence." 

Kemp  stayed  at  Maple  House  for  a  week.  Before  he 
left  he  was  known  throughout  the  country  side.  His 
lanky  figure,  drooping  mustaches,  domed  hat  and  the 
way  he  held  out  the  reins  in  front  of  him  when  he  rode 
marked  him  from  the  start  and  when  the  youth  of  the 


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surrounding  farms  learned  that  he  was  a  genuine  cow- 
boy that  had  ridden  everything  with  four  legs,  they 
worshiped  from  afar  and  gloried  in  casual  approaches. 

Just  before  he  went  away  Kemp  took  it  upon  himself 
to  call  on  Alix.  Alan  led  him  to  where  she  sat  on  the 
lawn  among  the  trees  at  The  Firs  and  left  him.  Alix 
looked  up  in  wonder  at  his  tall,  lank  form.  Kemp  held 
his  hat  in  his  hands  and  twisted  it  nervously. 

"  Mis'  Lansing,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  should  let  me 
say  a  few  words  to  ye.  I  seen  Mister  Lansing  'bout 
five  weeks  ago." 

Alix  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  pale  cheeks  aflame. 
"  Yes  ?  "  she  said.  "  When  —  when  is  he  coming  ?  " 
She  sank  down  again  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
The  shame  of  putting  that  question  to  a  stranger  over- 
whelmed her. 

Kemp  sat  down  near  her.  "  Sho,  Mis'  Lansing,"  he 
said,  "  don'  you  take  it  hard  that  you  're  getting  word  of 
Mr.  Lansing  through  me.  Him  an'  me  an'  Lieber  's 
ben  'most  pardners." 

Tenderness  had  crept  into  Kemp's  drawl.  Alix 
looked  up.  "  Please,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  all  about  him 
—  all  about  these  years." 

Kemp  hesitated  before  he  spoke.  "  I  ain't  got  the 
words  ner  the  right  to  tell  you  all  about  them  three 
years,  Mis'  Lansing,  an'  I  can't  tell  you  all  about  Mr. 
Lansing  'cause  the  biggest  part  o'  some  men  don'  meet 
the  eye  —  it 's  inside  on  'em.  Thet  's  the  way  it  is  with 
Mr.  Lansing.  I  c'n  tell  you,  though,  thet  Mr.  Lansing 
is  well  an'  strong  —  strong  enough  to  swing  a  steer  by 
the  tail. 


HOME 

"  That 's  what  I  know.  Now  I  '11  tell  ye  some  o' 
my  thoughts.  Mr.  Lansing  wan't  horn  to  he  a  maverick. 
Eight  now,  I  'm  willin'  to  wager,  he  's  headed  fer  home 
and  the  corral  hut  he  ain't  comin'  on  the  run  —  he  's 
hrowsin'  and  chewin'  his  cud. 

"  When  I  seen  him  five  weeks  ago  I  thought  on  hog- 
tyin'  him  an'  bringin'  him  along,  'cause  Mr.  Wayne  had 
tol'  me  about  you  an'  the  two-year-old.  But  it  come  to 
me  that  a  woman  of  sperit  —  one  of  ourn  —  would  n't 
want  her  man  should  be  brougJit  in.  She  'd  sooner  he  'd 
hog-tie  hisseff." 

Alix'  head  hung  in  thought.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  in  her  lap.  As  Kemp's  last  words  sank  in,  the 
first  smile  of  many  days  came  to  her  lips. 

Kemp  rose  and  said  good-by.  With  his  hat  pulled 
well  over  his  brows  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he 
slouched  toward  the  gate. 

Alix  jumped  up  and  followed  him.  She  laid  her 
thin,  light  hand  on  his  arm.  "  Thank  you,"  she  said, 
a  little  breathlessly.  Kemp's  deep-set  eyes  twinkled 
down  on  her.  He  held  out  his  big,  rough  hand  and 
Alix  gripped  it. 

"  Not  good-by,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XL 

MAPLE  HOUSE  was  riding  the  crest  of  a  happy 
wave.  In  a  body  it  advanced  on  the  lake  to  pic- 
nic and  supper  by  moonlight  and  in  a  body  it  returned ; 
the  little  ones  excited  and  wakeful,  the  grown-ups  tired 
and  reminiscent.  Days  followed  that  were  filled  with 
laziness  and  nights  that  rang  with  song.  The  cup  of 
life  was  filled  to  the  brim  with  little  things.  Sudden 
peals  of  unreasoning  laughter,  shrieks  of  children  at 
play,  a  rumble  of  the  piano  followed  by  a  rollicking 
college  song,  ready  smiles  on  happy  faces,  broke  like 
commas  into  the  page  of  life,  and  turned  monotony  into 
living  phrases.  But  beneath  the  gaiety  ran  the  inevi- 
table undertone.  When  joy  paused  to  take  breath  it 
found  Alan  half  aloof  and  Clem  wistful  behind  her  un- 
varying sweetness. 

One  evening  Alan  found  himself  alone  with  Nance. 
She  had  frankly  cornered  him,  then  as  openly  led  him 
off  down  the  road  towards  Elm  House. 

"  Alan,"  she  said,  "  you  Ve  turned  into  a  great  fool 
or  a  great  coward.  Which  is  it  ?  " 

Alan  glanced  at  her.  "  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he 
stammered. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.     Clem.     You  're  breaking 

her  heart." 

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She  felt  Alan's  arm  stiffen.  For  a  moment  he  was 
silent,  then  he  said :  "  Don't  worry,  Nance.  You  're 
wrong,  of  course,  but  any  way,  no  harm  is  going  to 
come  to  Clem  through  me.  I  'm  going  away.  I  've 
meant  to  go  for  ever  so  long  but  somehow  I  could  n't. 
Something  seemed  to  hold  me.  I  tried  to  think  it  was 
just  the  Hill  and  that  it  would  be  all  right  for  me  to 
stay  on  until  the  general  break-up.  But  you  have 
wakened  me  up  and  the  proof  that  I  'm  not  quite  a 
coward  yet  is  that  I  'm  going  to  get  up  and  run." 

They  came  to  the  entrance  to  The  Elms  but  ISTance 
led  him  on  down  the  road.  "  Run  ?  Why  are  you  go- 
ing to  run  ?  Alan,  don't  you  love  her  ?  " 

A  tremor  went  through  Alan's  body.  "  I  don't 
know,"  he  said,  "  whether  I  love  her  or  not.  If  I  ever 
loved  any  one  before,  then  I  don't  love  her,  for  the  thing 
that  has  come  over  me  is  new  —  newer  than  anything 
that  has  ever  happened  to  me.  I  would  rather  see  her 
come  down  from  her  room  in  the  morning  than  to  have 
watched  the  birth  of  Aphrodite  and  yet  I  would  rather 
see  myself  damned,  once  and  for  all,  than  touch  the 
hem  of  her  frock." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  it  is  not  for  me.  Once  Alix  called  her 
glorious.  I  don't  know  whether  that  was  a  bit  of  hyper- 
bole on  her  part  or  not  but  to  me  she  is  just  that.  There 
is  a  glory  about  Clem  —  the  glory  of  pure  light.  Do 
you  think  I  dare  to  walk  into  it  ?  Me,  with  my  scarred 
life,  my  blemished  soul  and  the  moral  rags  that  only 
half  hide  the  two  ?  That  would  be  cowardly.  I  'm 
not  coward  enough  for  that." 


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Nance  sighed.  "  I  'm  disappointed  in  you.  I 
thought  that  if  ever  man  lived  that  knew  a  little  about 
women  it  must  be  you.  I  won't  say  any  of  the  things 
I  was  going  to  say.  Instead,  I  just  tell  you  that  you 
don't  know  women." 

They  walked  back  in  silence.  Nance  went  into  the 
house  but  Alan  said  good-night  and  started  thought- 
fully down  the  road.  His  step  quickened  and  walking 
rapidly,  he  passed  over  the  moonlit  brow  of  the  hill  and 
down,  down  into  the  shadows  of  the  valley.  Hard  is 
the  battle  that  has  to  be  won  twice  but  when  in  the 
s.mall  hours  of  the  morning  Alan  returned  and  crept 
noiselessly  to  his  room  he  felt  that  he  had  won,  that  he 
had  put  the  final  seal  on  the  renunciation  Nance's  words 
had  well-nigh  recalled.  Still  wakeful,  Alan  started 
packing.  He  left  out  his  riding  kit. 

That  day  awoke  to  clouds  that  lowered  and  hung 
about  waiting  for  the  fateful  hour  of  seven  when  they 
might  with  due  respect  to  atmospheric  tradition  start 
in  with  an  all  day  rain,  but  long  before  the  hour  struck 
Alan  had  foraged  for  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of  milk  and 
was  mounted  and  away  for  a  last  ride. 

Alan  rode  with  the  ease  of  one  born  to  the  saddle. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  cowboy  in  his  get-up.  He 
used  a  mere  patch  of  a  hunting  saddle,  fitted  like  a  glove 
to  his  horse's  back,  and  rode  on  the  snaffle  with  a  light 
hand.  The  curb  rein,  that  last  refuge  of  a  poor  horse- 
man, hung  loose  and  forgotten.  Alan  himself  was 
dressed  in  well-worn  whipcord  breeches,  short  coat,  soft 
hat,  and  close-fitting  boots  adorned  with  rowelless  spurs. 
Tor  his  health  Eed  Hill  had  done  wonders.  His  body 


296  HOME 

was  trim,  supple,  and  as  vibrant  as  the  young  horse 
under  it. 

But  Alan's  thoughts  were  far  from  saddles  and  saddle 
gear  as  he  walked  the  restive  animal  down  the  dipping 
slope  of  Long  Lane  and  with  his  riding  crop  steadily 
discouraged  the  early  morning  flies,  intent  on  settling 
down  to  the  business  of  life  on  his  mount's  arched  neck 
and  quivering  quarters.  He  was  thinking  of  Clem. 
Where  could  he  go  to  get  away  from  Clem?  Not  to- 
morrow, not  sometime,  but  to-day.  Where  could  he  go 
to-day  ?  Once  the  world  had  seemed  to  him  a  fenceless 
pasture  where  it  was  good  to  wander,  where  every  un- 
discovered glade  promised  fresh  morsels  to  an  unwearied 
palate  but  now  in  his  mind  the  whole  world  had  shrunk 
to  the  proportions  of  Red  Hill.  Where  Clem  was,  there 
was  the  whole  world.  Already  he  felt  the  yearning 
with  which  his  heart  must  henceforth  turn  to  its  sole 
desire. 

He  crossed  the  valley  and,  as  his  horse  breasted  the 
opposing  hill,  he  thought  he  heard  an  echoing  hoofbeat 
behind  him.  He  turned  and  with  one  hand  resting  on 
the  horse's  quarter  gazed  back  through  the  gray  light 
but  Long  Lane  was  veiled  from  view  by  overhanging 
trees.  As  he  lifted  his  hand,  its  impress,  clearly  de- 
fined as  an  image,  caught  his  eye.  How  strange.  He 
had  ridden  a  thousand  times  and  he  had  never  noted 
such  a  thing  before.  It  was  simple  when  reduced  to 
physical  terms.  The  horse  was  warm  and  moist,  the 
hair  cool  and  dry.  His  hand  pressed  the  hair  down 
into  the  moisture.  But  when  he  had  reasoned  out  the 
why  and  wherefore  and  ticketed  the  phenomenon,  the 


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impress  still  stared  back  at  him.  To  his  mood  it  seemed 
an  emblem  of  isolation,  a  thing  cut  off,  discarded,  use- 
less. With  a  smile  of  rebuke  at  his  fancies  he  touched 
the  horse  with  his  crop  and  gave  him  his  head.  The 
horse  sprang  forward,  cleared  the  top  of  the  hill  and 
the  rhythmic  clatter  of  his  hoofs  as  he  dashed  along 
the  pebble-strewn  road  seemed  to  cleave  the  still  morn- 
ing in  two. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

ALAN  did  not  draw  rein  until  he  reached  the  top  of 
the  bluff  dividing  the  valley  from  West  Lake. 
Then  for  a  moment  he  sat  and  stared  down  the  long 
slope.  There  was  a  smell  of  moisture  in  the  air.  The 
valley,  the  whole  world,  was  expecting,  waiting  for  rain, 
and  even  as  he  stared  the  rain  came  in  a  fine,  veil-like 
mist  that  steadied  the  tones  of  earth  and  sky  to  one  even 
shade  of  endless  gray.  Out  of  the  gray  came  the  click 
of  iron  on  pebble.  Alan  recognized  the  quick,  springy 
tread  of  a  climbing  horse.  He  turned  and  faced  Clem. 
He  felt  the  slow  color  rising  in  his  cheeks  and  his  hands 
trembled. 

They  did  not  smile  at  each  other;  they  even  forgot 
to  say  good-morning.  Alan  licked  his  thin  lips.  They 
were  as  dry  as  ever  they  had  been  with  fever. 
"  Where 's  your  hat  ?  "  he  asked. 

A  flicker  of  amusement  showed  in  Clem's  eyes.  She 
was  quite  calm  and  she  could  see  that  Alan  was  not, 
that  he  was  biting  his  tongue  at  the  feeble  words  he  had 
saddled  on  a  heavy  moment.  "  Hats  are  for  sunny 
days,"  she  said.  "  I  like  rain  on  my  head.  Have  you 
anything  special  to  do  ?  Don't  let  me  bother  you." 

"  No,"  stammered  Alan,  "  nothing  that  can't  be  put 
off." 

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"  Do  you  remember,"  Clem  went  on,  "  years  ago  I 
asked  you  to  take  me  for  a  ride,  and  you  said  not  then 
but  sometime  ?  I  've  never  had  my  ride  with  you.  I 
want  it  now." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  and  held  him.  "  I  am 
ready,"  he  said  through  dry  lips. 

She  turned  her  horse  and  he  followed.  They  rode  in 
silence  at  a  walk  and  then  at  a  trot.  Clem  turned  into 
a  wood-road.  Her  horse  broke  into  a  gallop.  She 
flicked  him  with  her  whip  and  his  gathered  limbs  sud- 
denly stretched  out  for  a  free  run.  The  going  was  soft. 
Alan  had  fallen  behind.  Clots  of  mossy  loam  struck 
him  in  the  face.  Swaying  branches  showered  drops  of 
water  on  him.  He  lost  his  hat.  Then  his  lips  tight- 
ened, his  eyes  flashed  and  he  began  to  ride.  He  was 
himself  again. 

He  urged  his  horse  forward  but  he  could  not  get  on 
even  terms ;  Clem  held  the  middle  of  the  narrow  track. 
Suddenly  they  burst  into  the  broad  Low  Eoad.  With  a 
terrific  clatter  of  flying  stones  and  slipping,  scrambling 
hoofs  they  made  the  turn.  Alan  rode  at  last  on  Clem's 
quarter.  "  Clem,"  he  cried,  "  stop !  It  is  n't  fair  to 
the  horses." 

But  Clem  only  laughed.  Her  slim  body  swayed  to 
the  bends  of  the  road;  her  shoulders  were  braced;  she 
leaned  slightly  back,  steadying  her  horse  with  a  taut 
rein.  Alan  tried  to  draw  even  but  every  time  he  urged 
his  horse  into  a  spurt  Clem's  spurted  too.  Alan  grew 
angry.  He  watched  Clem's  whip  but  it  never  moved. 
He  settled  into  the  saddle  and  rode  blindly.  His  horse 
must  catch  up  or  he  would  kill  him.  He  was  gaining. 


300  HOME 

A  moment  more  at  the  same  pace  and  he  could  reach 
Clem's  reins  below  her  horse's  neck.  Then  Clem 
swerved  again  into  a  half  hidden  wood-road  and  Alan's 
horse  plunged  through  the  brush,  broke  out,  and  fol- 
lowed, a  poor  second. 

Alan's  face  and  hands  were  badly  scratched  but  he 
rode  on  doggedly.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  give  up 
the  chase.  In  the  end  he  would  catch  up ;  he  knew  that, 
but  what  puzzled  him  was  what  he  should  do  to  Clem 
when  he  caught  her.  Any  one  else,  man  or  woman,  he 
would  give  a  taste  of  their  own  riding  whip  for  their 
own  good  but  not  Clem.  Alan  suddenly  knew  that  there 
was  something  in  Clem  that  a  man  could  not  break. 

The  wood-road  made  a  gradual  ascent  that  the  willing 
horses  took  at  a  steady,  hard  gallop.  They  left  the 
tree-line  of  the  valley  below  them,  scurried  across  an 
ancient  clearing,  pushed  through  brush  and  branches, 
and  burst  out  on  to  the  long,  bald  back  of  East  Mountain. 
Then  came  another  clear  run  over  crisp  sod  dangerously 
interspersed  with  wet,  slippery  stones  and  hindering 
boulders. 

At  the  highest  point  in  all  the  country-side  Clem 
suddenly  drew  rein  and  slipped  from  her  horse  before 
Alan  could  reach  her.  She  stood  with  one  arm  across 
the  saddle-horn  and  waited  for  him. 

Alan  threw  himself  from  his  horse  and  rushed  up  to 
her.  His  hands  were  itching  to  grip  her  shoulders  and 
shake  her  but  he  held  them  at  his  side.  "  What  did  you 
do  it  for  ?  "  he  asked  with  blazing  eyes. 

Clem  looked  him  over  coolly.  "  Ever  run  after  any 
one  before,  Alan  ?  " 


HOME  301 

"  What  ?  "  stuttered  Alan.  He  felt  foundations  slip- 
ping from  under  him.  Here  was  a  person  who  could 
look  Ten  Percent  Wayne  at  his  best  in  the  eye  and 
never  turn  a  mental  hair. 

"  How  do  you  like  it  ? "  continued  Clem  in  an  even, 
firm  voice.  Then  she  turned  her  square  back  to  the 
saddle  and  faced  him  fairly.  "  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  did 
it  for.  All  my  life  I  've  been  running  after  you.  Last 
night  I  heard  you  packing.  I  knew  what  you  were  do- 
ing —  you  were  getting  ready  to  go  away.  Before  you 
went  I  wanted  you  to  run  after  me  —  just  once.  A 
sort  of  consolation  prize  to  pride." 

Alan's  face  hardened.  "  Stop,  Clem.  You  can't 
talk  like  that  to  me  and  you  can't  talk  like  that  to  your- 
self." He  looked  at  Clem  and  the  blood  surged  into 
his  neck  and  face.  At  that  moment  Clem  was  beautiful 
to  him  beyond  the  wildest  dreams  of  fair  women.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  close-fitting  long  coat  that  buttoned 
down  the  front.  Her  riding  skirt,  of  the  same  dark 
stuff,  she  had  hitched  up  at  one  side  to  a  silver  hook. 
From  under  the  raised  skirt  peeped  a  straight  riding 
boot  and  on  the  heel  of  the  boot  was  a  tiny,  right-an- 
gle spur.  Alan's  quick  eyes  hung  on  that  spur;  it  ex- 
plained the  lead  Clem  had  held  through  the  headlong 
ride. 

Clem's  right  arm  was  still  hooked  over  the  double 
horn  of  her  saddle  and  her  left  hand  holding  a  slim 
riding  whip  hung  at  her  side.  To  the  velvet  lapels  of 
her  coat  clung  little  drops  of  rain.  Her  hair  was 
braided  and  firmly  tied  in  a  double  fold  at  the  back  of 
her  neck,  but  short  strands  had  escaped  from  durance 


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and  played  about  her  head.  Her  head,  like  the  velvet 
lapels,  was  dusted  with  little  silvery  drops  of  water  and 
little  drops  of  water  perched  on  her  long,  up-turned 
lashes.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  bosom  agitated, 
her  lips  tremulous.  Only  her  eyes  were  steady. 

Alan  took  off  his  coat  and  threw  it  over  a  rock, 
"  Will  you  please  sit  down  ?  I  must  talk  to  you." 

Clem  strode  to  another  rock  and  sat  down.  "  You 
are  absurd.  Your  coat  is  as  wet  as  the  stones.  Put  it 
on."  Alan  hesitated.  "  Put  your  coat  on." 

Alan  obeyed ;  then  he  sat  down  before  her  but  turned 
his  eyes  away  and  gazed  rather  vacantly  over  the  whole 
wet  world.  "  If  ever  two  people  have  known  each 
other  without  words,  Clem,  it 's  you  and  me.  Never 
mind  the  grammar.  Even  unshackled  words  are  a 
dribbling  outlet  for  a  full  heart  and  my  heart 's  as  full 
to-day  with  things  I  Ve  never  said  to  you  as  the  clouds 
are  with  rain. 

"  Nature,  taken  by  and  large,  is  a  funny  outfit  and 
the  funniest  things  in  it  are  the  ones  that  make  you  want 
to  cry.  The  world  sees  a  good  man,  clean  and  straight, 
married  to  a  faithless  woman  and  laughs.  Men  see  a 
pure  girl  give  her  all  to  a  cad  and  they  say,  i  It 's  al- 
ways the  rotters  that  get  the  pick,'  and  they  laugh  too. 
But  down  in  the  bottom  of  our  hearts  we  know  that 
these  things  are  things  for  tears." 

"  Yes,  Alan,"  said  Clem  as  he  paused.  She  was  no 
longer  imperious,  only  attentive  with  chin  in  hands  and 
elbows  on  knees. 

"You  know  me,"  went  on  Alan,  "but  there  are 
things  about  me  that  you  do  not  know  —  things  below 


HOME  303 

you  that  you  have  no  understanding  for,  thank  God. 
I  don't  even  know  how  to  picture  them  to  you." 

"  Yes,  Alan,"  said  Clem  softly. 

Alan  picked  a  bit  of  huckleberry  bush  and  twisted 
it  nervously  in  his  hands.  "  First  of  all  I  've  got  to 
tell  you  what  I  thought  you  knew,  that  what  there  is  of 
me  is  yours  over  and  over  again  and  then  I  've  got  to 
tell  you  why  you  can't  have  it."  A  light  came  into 
Clem's  eyes,  trembled,  flickered  and  then  settled  to  a 
steady  flame. 

"  You  've  seen  people  smile  —  every  one  has  a  smile 
of  sorts,"  went  on  Alan.  "  Did  you  ever  think  that  a 
smile  had  body  and  soul  ?  To  me  it  has.  It  starts  out 
in  life  like  a  virgin  with  a  body  to  keep  pure  and  a 
soul  to  guard  unstained.  There  are  smiles  that  illu- 
mine a  face,  that  shine  with  essential  purity,  that  glorify. 
Nobody  has  to  tell  you  that  they  have  never  pandered 
to  a  ribald  jest  or  added  cruelty  to  denial.  They  are 
live  smiles  and  they  are  rare  among  women  and  rarer 
among  men.  For  one  such  you  '11  find  a  thousand  liv- 
ing faces  with  dead  smiles  —  smiles  that  have  scattered 
their  essence  like  rain  on  the  just  and  the  unjust,  that 
have  rolled  in  filth  and  wasted  their  substance  on  the 
second  best.  You'll  find  them  flickering  out  in  the 
faces  of  young  men  and  at  the  last  gasp  in  the  faces 
of  lost  women  whose  eyes  hold  the  shadows  of  unfor- 
gotten  sins." 

"Well?"  said  Clem. 

Alan  sighed.  "  Between  the  lines  of  my  words  you 
must  read  for  yourself.  My  smile  is  dead  —  I  killed 
it  long  ago.  Yours  is  alive  —  alive.  You  have  kept  it 


304  HOME 

pure,  guarded  its  flame  and  you  shall  hold  it  high  like 
a  beacon.  You  are  ready  to  give  all  and  you  have  all 
to  give.  I  have  nothing  but  the  empty  shell.  I  have 
kept  nothing.  I  have  gained  the  whole  world  —  and 
lost  it.  The  little  strength  left  to  the  pinions  of  my 
soul  could  carry  me  up  to  clutch  your  beacon  and  drag 
it  down,  but  Clem  —  dearest  of  all  women  —  I  love 
you  too  much  for  that.  You  've  got  to  trust  me.  The 
things  I  know  that  you  do  not  know  shove  the  duty  of 
denial  on  to  my  shoulders.  I  could  give  you  an  empty 
shell  but  I  won't." 

Alan  had  not  looked  at  Clem.  He  had  talked  like 
one  rehearsing  a  lesson,  with  his  eyes  far  away  in  the 
gray  world.  He  dropped  the  bit  of  bush,  and  his  hands, 
locked  about  his  knees,  gripped  each  other  till  the 
knuckles  and  fingers  showed  white  against  the  tan  of  his 
thin  wrists.  When  he  stopped  speaking  Clem  turned 
curious  eyes  upon  him.  "  Is  that  all  ?  "  she  asked. 

Alan  sprang  up  and  faced  her.  "  All  ?  All  ?  "  he 
cried.  "  Is  n't  it  enough  ?  " 

Clem  rose  to  her  feet.  In  her  uplifted  right  hand 
she  held  her  agate-headed  riding  whip.  Alan's  eyes 
fastened  on  it  as  she  meant  them  to  do.  Then  with  a 
full,  free  swing  she  flung  it  from  her.  The  whip, 
weighted  by  the  agate  head,  described  a  long  curve 
through  the  air  and  plunged  into  the  brush  far  down 
the  mountain  side.  "  That,"  said  Clem,  her  eyes  flash- 
ing into  his,  "  for  the  beacon.  I  kept  it  for  you.  It 
was  too  good  for  you;  you  would  not  take  it,  so  there 
it  goes."  Her  lip  trembled  and  she  snapped  her  fin- 
gers. "  It  is  not  worth  that  to  me," 


HOME  305 

"  Clem  !  "  cried  Alan,  protesting. 

"  Don't  speak,"  said  Clem ;  "  you  have  said  what  you 
had  to  say.  Now  listen  to  me.  You  are  blind,  Alan, 
or  worse  than  that,  asleep.  I  'm  not  a  thin-legged  elf 
with  skirts  bobbing  above  my  knees  any  more.  You 
can't  make  me  swallow  my  protests  to-day  with, —  Clem, 
you  must  n't  this  and  you  must  n't  that.  There 's  one 
thing  you  Ve  closed  your  eyes  on  long  enough.  I  'm 
a  woman,  Alan,  bone,  spirit  and  a  great  deal  of  flesh. 
I  love  you  and  you  say  you  love  me." 

Alan  started  forward  but  Clem  held  him  off  with  a 
gesture.  "  What  do  you  think  I  love  in  you  ?  The 
things  you  have  spent?  The  things  you  have  thrown 
away?  Has  a  woman  ever  fallen  in  love  with  a  man 
because  he  was  perfect  ? "  Clem  made  a  desponding 
gesture  with  both  hands  as  though  she  sought  words 
that  would  not  come.  "  Some  men  clap  a  wife  on  to 
themselves,"  she  went  on,  "  as  you  clap  a  lid  on  to  a 
hot  fire.  If  the  fire  grows  cold  quick  enough  the  lid 
cracks.  Some  just  let  the  fire  burn  out  and  take 
the  dross  with  it.  A  woman  knows  that  there  is  always 
something  left  in  the  man  she  loves.  And  even  if  she 
did  not  know  it,  it  would  be  the  same.  She  would 
rather  give  all  for  nothing  than  never  give  at  all." 

Clem's  voice  fell  into  a  lower  key.  "The  things 
you  know  that  I  do  not  know !  What  a  child  you  are 
among  men.  A  half-witted  woman  is  born  with  more 
knowledge  than  the  wisest  of  you  ever  attains  and  the 
first  thing  she  learns  is  that  life  laughs  at  knowledge." 

Clem  stopped  speaking  and  her  eyes  that  had  wan- 
dered came  back  to  Alan's  face.  She  drew  a  quiver- 


306  HOME 

ing  breath.  Her  face  had  been  pale  but  now  the  sud- 
den color  surged  up  over  her  throat  and  into  her  cheeks. 
She  put  up  her  hands  to  her  forehead.  "  Oh,"  she 
gasped,  "  you  have  driven  me  too  far.  I  am  a  mean 
thing  in  my  own  eyes  as  I  am  in  yours." 

At  first  Alan  had  stood  stunned  by  the  words  in 
which  she  had  poured  out  her  overburdened  heart  but 
as  she  went  on  pitilessly  laying  bare  her  subjection  a 
flame  lit  up  his  eyes  and  fired  his  blood.  Xow  he 
sprang  forward  and  dragged  her  hands  from  her  face. 
"  Mean,  Clem  ?  Mean  in  my  eyes  ?  "  Then  his  tongue 
failed  him.  He  sank  to  the  wet  grass  at  her  feet, 
took  her  knees  in  his  arms  and  hid  his  hot  face  in 
her  skirt.  "  My  God,  my  God,"  he  cried.  "  /  am 
mean  but  what  there  is  of  me  has  knelt  to  you  by  night 
and  worshiped  you  by  day.  When  you  were  little  you 
were  in  my  heart  and  you  have  grown  up  in  it.  When 
you  were  little  there  was  room  there  for  other  things 
but  now  that  you  have  grown  up  you  have  filled  it  — 
all  of  it  —  every  nook  and  cranny." 

A  tremor  went  through  Clem's  body.  She  rested  the 
fingers  of  one  hand  on  Alan's  head  and  tried  to  turn 
up  his  face.  But  he  held  it  close  to  her  knees.  "  If 
you  want  me,  Clem,  if  you  want  me,  then  there  must  be 
things  left  —  things  I  have  never  —  could  never  give  — 
to  any  one  else.  But  I  am  ashamed  to  pour  them  into 
your  lap  —  I  must  pour  them  at  your  feet." 

"  No,"  said  Clem  gravely,  "  I  do  not  want  you  to 
pour  things  at  my  feet.  It 's  got  to  be  eye  to  eye  or 
nothing,  and  if  there  's  any  man  left  in  — " 

"  Clem,"  broke  in  Alan,  "  there  is  enough  man  left 


HOME  307 

in  me  if  you  '11  only  give  me  time.  Time  to  groom 
him.  You  can  understand  that,  Clem?  You  know 
what  grooming  and  a  clean  stable  will  do  for  a  shaggy 
horse  ?  " 

Clem  nodded.     "  How  much  time  do  you  want  ?  " 

Alan  hesitated.  "  A  year,"  he  said.  "  I  '11  make 
a  year  do  it." 

"  You  can  have  six  months,"  replied  Clem  and  ad- 
ded with  a  smile,  "  That 's  ten  per  cent  under  office 
estimates." 

Then  forgetful  of  hours  and  meals  and  the  little 
things  in  life  that  do  not  count  when  human  souls 
mount  to  the  banquet  of  the  gods,  they  sat  side  by  side 
and  hand  in  hand  on  a  big  rock  and  stared  with  unsee- 
ing eyes  at  the  gray  world.  "With  you  beside  me," 
said  Alan,  "  all  skies  are  blue  and  filled  with  the  light 
of  a  single,  steady  star." 

Clem  did  not  answer,  but  in  her  eyes  content  and 
knowledge,  tenderness  and  strength,  pleasure  and  pain 
played  with  each  other  like  the  lights  and  dappled 
shadows  under  a  swaying  bough. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

WHEN  Clem  and  Alan  reached  home  long  after 
the  lunch  hour,  they  found  the  Hill  athrill 
•with  news.  Alix  had  received  a  cable  and  had  left  at 
once  for  town.  She  had  gone  alone.  That  could  mean 
but  one  thing  —  Gerry  was  at  last  coming  back. 

It  was  from  Barbados  that  Gerry  had  cabled.  Ever 
since  he  had  written  his  short  note  to  Alix,  through 
long  doubting  weeks  at  Piranhas  and  longer  days  of 
questioning  and  hesitation  on  board  the  slow  freighter 
that  was  bearing  him  home,  Gerry  had  been  fighting 
himself.  Only  Lieber's  sudden  death  and  his  burial, 
to  which  Gerry  had  ridden  post-haste,  had  come  in  be- 
tween as  a  solemn  truce. 

On  the  freighter  he  had  had  time  enough  and  to 
spare  to  think.  He  had  spent  hours  going  over  the 
same  ground  time  and  time  again.  Eor  days  he  sat 
in  his  chair  on  the  short  bridge-deck,  staring  out  to  sea, 
making  over  and  over  the  circle  of  his  life  from  the 
time  he  had  left  home.  He  remembered  sitting  thus 
on  the  way  out.  He  remembered  the  turmoil  his  mind 
had  been  in  and  the  apathy  that  had  followed,  the 
long  rest  at  Pernambuco,  the  trip  down  the  coast  and 
up  the  river,  the  glorious  misty  morning  at  Piranhas, 
Margarita,  catastrophe,  awakening.  What  did  that 

308 


HOME  309 

awakening  stand  for?  Again  he  thought,  if  he  could 
choose  —  would  he  wish  to  he  hack  as  he  was  before  — 
as  he  was  on  the  way  out?  A  voice  within  him  said 
"  No." 

In  those  days  when  once  more  his  thoughts  demanded 
to  be  seen  in  their  relation  to  Alix,  that  steady  voice 
within  him  was  his  only  comfort.  The  flood  at 
Fazenda  Flores  had  swept  away  all  that  his  hands  had 
done  but  the  things  that  Fazenda  Flores  had  done  for 
him  could  not  be  swept  away  by  any  material  force. 
They  stood  and  feared  nothing  —  except  Alix. 

Wherever  his  mind  turned,  it  came  back  to  Alix  and 
found  in  her  an  impasse.  Alix  assumed  more  and 
more  the  portentous  attributes  of  one  unattached,  sit- 
ting in  judgment  over  his  acts.  His  memory  of  her 
frailty,  of  her  flower-like  detachment  from  the  bones 
—  the  skeleton  —  of  life,  her  artificiality,  made  her 
seem  ludicrously  incongruous  in  the  role  of  judge.  He 
could  not  picture  her,  much  less  estimate  the  sentence 
she  would  pass.  His  thoughts  led  him  daily  up  to 
that  impasse  and  left  him.  Then  came  the  doubt  and 
the  question  —  why  should  he  lead  himself  bodily  to 
the  impasse  at  all  ? 

He  was  still  fighting  this  point  when  he  reached  Bar- 
bados but  there  an  incident  befell  which  brought  a  new 
light  to  his  mind  and  then  a  new  peace  to  his  soul. 

He  had  gone  ashore  at  Bridgetown  simply  because 
his  whole  body,  perfectly  attuned  by  three  years  of  long 
hours  of  toil,  was  crying  out  for  more  exercise  than  the 
narrow  decks  of  the  freighter  could  afford. 

When  the  little  group  of  passengers  reached  shore, 


310  HOME 

with  the  exception  of  Gerry  and  an  old  returning  Bar- 
badian, they  all  turned  in  the  same  direction  as  if  by 
a  common  impulse. 

The  Barbadian  glanced  at  Gerry  and  jerked  his  head 
at  the  disappearing  group.  "  Men  of  the  world  in  the 
big  sense,"  he  said. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Gerry. 
"  Son,"  said  the  old  Barbadian,  who  was  very  tanned 
and  whose  kindly  eyes  blinked  through  thick  glasses, 
"  when  a  chap  tells  you  he 's  a  man  of  the  world  you 
ask  him  if  he  ever  had  a  drink  at  the  Ice  House.  You 
don't  have  to  say  '  in  Bridgetown.'  '  Ever  have  a 
drink  at  the  Ice  House  ? '  Just  like  that ;  and  if  he 
says,  '  No/  you  know  he  meant  he  was  a  town  rounder 
when  he  said  he  was  a  man  of  the  world." 

Gerry  smiled  and  fell  naturally  in  step  with  the 
Barbadian  as  he  moved  slowly  on. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man.  "  It 's  a  sure  test.  The 
man  that  has  n't  crooked  his  elbow  at  the  big,  round, 
deal  table  in  that  old  ramshackle  drink-house,  can't  say 
he's  really  traveled.  Long  lost  brothers  and  friends 
have  met  there  and  when  men  that  roam  the  high  seas 
want  news  of  some  pal  that 's  disappeared  down  the 
highway  of  the  world  they  drop  in  at  the  old  Ice  House 
and  ask  what  road  he  took.  It  ?s  the  halfway  house  to 
all  the  seven  seas." 

"  Have  you  lost  any  one  ?  "  asked  Gerry. 

"  No,  I  'm  not  thirsty  for  drink  just  now,"  said  the 
Barbadian  with  a  smile.  "  And  you  ?  "  / 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Gerry,  laughing.  "  I  'm  out  to 
stretch  my  legs." 


HOME  311 

"You  can't  do  that  here,"  replied  the  old  man. 
"  You  don't  know  our  sun.  Come  with  me."  He 
hailed  a  ramshackle  victoria. 

Gerry  hesitated.  "  You  must  have  a  home  you  want 
to  go  to  and  friends  to  see.  Don't  worry  about  me. 
I  '11  be  careful  about  the  sun." 

"  Boy,"  said  the  Barbadian,  "  I  Ve  got  a  home  and 
I  'm  going  to  see  it  but  there  's  no  reason  why  you 
should  n't  come  along.  As  for  friends  —  the  ones  I 
left  here  won't  get  up  to  meet  any  one  till  the  last 
trump  sounds.  Come  along.  You  are  the  only  com- 
pany and  I  'm  the  only  host  in  our  party." 

They  climbed  into  the  rickety  cab  and  the  Bar- 
badian gave  directions  to  the  driver.  The  driver 
answered  in  the  soft  guttural  of  the  West  Indian 
black. 

Slowly  they  crawled  through  the  crooked  streets  of 
the  town.  Gerry  leaned  back  and  gazed  at  the  freak- 
ish buildings.  They  were  all  of  frame  work.  Some 
swelled  at  the  top  and  Gerry  wondered  why  they  did 
not  topple  over;  some  swelled  at  the  bottom  and  he 
wondered  why  these  did  not  cave  in. 

The  Barbadian  watched  his  face.  "Funny  town, 
eh?" 

Gerry  nodded. 

Presently  they  found  themselves  on  a  country  road. 
It  was  so  smooth  that  the  weighted  carriage  pushed  the 
old  horses  along  at  an  unwonted  pace.  Little  houses  — 
hundreds  of  them  —  that  looked  like  big  hen-coops  lined 
the  road.  Suddenly  the  carriage  came  to  a  halt.  One 
of  the  little  houses  was  trying  to  straddle  the  road. 


312  HOME 

From  around  it  came  screams  and  cries.     "  Now,  then, 
yo'  Gladys,  when  ah  say  heft,  yo'  heft." 

The  driver  poured  out  an  angry  torrent  of  words 
that  tried  their  best  to  be  harsh  and  failed.  From 
around  the  obstructing  house  came  an  old  darky.  When 
his  eyes  fell  on  the  Barbadian  he  rushed  forward. 
"  Lor,  Misteh  Malcolm,  when  did  yo'  get  back  ?  " 

"  Just  now,  Charles,"  said  the  Barbadian.  "  What 's 
the  matter  here  ?  " 

The  darky's  eyes  rolled.  "  Mattah,  Misteh  Mal- 
colm ?  Why  that  ole  Gunnel  Stewaat  he 's  jes'  so 
natcherly  parsonmonious  that  he  requires  me  to  pay 
rent  fo'  havin'  ma  house  on  his  Ian'  so  I  says  to  ole 
Mammy,  we  '11  jes'  move  this  here  residence  on  to  a 
gentleman's  Ian',  and  Misteh  Malcolm  me  'n  mammy  'n 
the  chile  are  jes'  a-movin'  it  on  to  yo'  ole  cane  fiel'." 

The  Barbadian  laughed  a  little  dryly  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  The  driver  got  down,  protesting,  and 
helped  the  family  carry  the  house  across  the  road. 
Then  the  cab  went  on  and  soon  turned  up  an  avenue 
under  a  fiery  canopy  of  acacia  flamboyante. 

As  they  progressed,  thick  twining  growths  spangled 
with  brilliant  blooms,  walled  in  the  avenue.  The  air 
grew  cool  but  heavy  with  scents  and  the  full-flavored 
spice  of  a  tropical  garden  under  a  blazing  sun. 

The  air  made  Gerry  dreamy.  He  woke  with  a  start 
when  the  Barbadian  said  to  the  cabman,  "  This  will  do. 
You  needn't  drive  in.  Wait  here." 

The  cab  stopped.  Just  ahead  was  the  ruin  of  a  great 
gate.  The  two  pillars  still  stood  but  they  were  almost 
entirely  hidden  by  vines.  To  one  of  them  clung  the 


HOME  313 

rusted  vestige  of  a  gate.  Beyond  the  pillars  there  was 
a  winding  way.  Once  it  had  been  a  broad  continuation 
of  the  avenue,  now  it  was  but  a  tunnel  through  the 
densely  crowding  foliage.  Along  the  center  of  the 
tunnel  was  a  narrow  path.  Even  it  was  overgrown. 
The  Barbadian  led  Gerry  down  the  path. 

They  came  out  under  a  grove  of  mighty  trees  whose 
dense  shade  had  kept  down  the  undergrowth  and  beyond 
the  trees  Gerry  saw  a  vast,  irregular  mound  of  vines 
with  which  mingled  giant  geraniums,  climbing  fuch- 
sias, honeysuckle  and  rose.  Then  he  spied  a  broad 
flight  of  marble  steps ;  at  one  end  of  them  an  old  moss- 
grown  urn,  at  the  other,  its  fallen,  broken  counterpart. 
Above  the  mound  rose  the  roof  of  a  house ;  through  the 
vines,  as  the  two  drew  nearer,  appeared  shuttered  win- 
dows and  a  door,  veiled  with  creepers. 

The  Barbadian  went  up  the  steps  and  tore  the 
creepers  away  from  the  door.  Then  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  an  enormous  key.  With  a  rasp  the  lock  turned 
and  the  door  opened,  letting  a  bar  of  light  into  a  wide, 
cool  hall. 

Gerry  followed  the  Barbadian  through  the  hall  to  a 
broad  veranda  at  the  back  of  the  house.  A  large  liv- 
ing-room faced  on  to  the  veranda.  The  Barbadian  en- 
tered it,  opened  the  French  door-windows  and,  dusting 
off  two  lounge  chairs,  invited  Gerry  to  sit  down. 

Gerry  looked  around  curiously.  The  living-room 
was  comfortably  furnished.  There  were  one  or  two 
excellent  rugs  on  the  waxed  floor;  a  great  couch,  set 
into  a  bow-window;  lace  curtains,  creamy  with  age; 
a  wonderfully  carved  escritoire  in  rosewood;  a  side- 


314  HOME 

board,  round  table  and  chairs  of  mahogany  that  was 
almost  as  dull  and  black  as  ebony.  Over  all  lay  a  coat 
of  dust. 

The  Barbadian  walked  to  the  round  table  and  with 
his  finger  wrote  in  the  dust,  then  he  sat  down  in  a 
worn  and  comfortable  chair,  a  companion  to  Gerry's. 
He  fell  into  so  deep  a  reverie  that  Gerry  thought  he 
was  asleep. 

Gerry  got  up  and  walked  around  the  room.  His  eye 
fell  on  the  table.  He  saw  what  the  Barbadian  had 
written;  simply  the  date  of  the  day.  But  above  the 
freshly  written  date  showed  another,  filmed  over  with 
dust,  and  above  that  another  almost  obliterated.  Gerry 
leaned  over  the  table.  He  could  see  that  a  long  suc- 
cession of  dates  had  been  written  into  the  thick-laid 
dust.  Beginning  with  the  fresh  numerals  staring  up 
at  him  they  reached  back  and  back  through  the  years 
till  they  faded  away  into  a  dim  past. 

Gerry  tiptoed  out  on  to  the  veranda.  Before  him 
was  a  ruined  lawn ;  in  its  center  a  cracked,  dry,  marble 
fountain.  Off  to  one  side  was  a  giant  plane  tree. 
From  one  of  its  limbs  hung  two  frayed  ropes.  Against 
its  trunk  leaned  a  weather-beaten  swing-board.  Under 
the  ropes,  a  wisp  of  path  still  showed,  beaten  hard  in 
a  bygone  day  by  the  feet  of  children.  Beyond  the  lawn 
stretched  wide  hummocky  cane-fields.  They  were 
abandoned  save  for  little  patches  of  cane  here  and  there, 
bunched  up  against  little  hen-coop  houses. 

"  Got  a  home,  boy  ?  " 

Gerry  turned  and  found  the  Barbadian  standing  be- 
side him.  "  A  home !  "  he  answered,  his  thoughts  fly- 


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ing  to  Bed  Hill,  "  I  should  think  I  have  and  it 's  a 
li — "  Gerry  caught  himself  but  not  in  time. 

The  Barbadian  nodded  slowly.  "  I  know,"  he  said, 
"you  were  going  to  say  it's  a  live  one.  Well,  as  to 
that,  don't  you  make  a  mistake.  This  home  is  alive 
too  —  just  exactly  as  alive  as  I  am,  for  I  'm  the  last 
of  the  Barbados  Malcolms. 

"  Home,"  he  went  on,  "  is  n't  altogether  a  matter  of 
cash,  comfort  and  cool  drinks.  Sometimes  it's  just  a 
gathering  place  for  memories. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  we  whites  stood  fifteen  to 
one  over  the  blacks  on  this  island.  Now  the  tables  are 
turned.  A  chap  that  only  takes  a  drink  every  time  he 
sees  a  white  man  would  have  to  go  to  a  mass  meeting 
to  get  drunk. 

"  Lately  they  've  been  sending  out  scientific  commis- 
sions from  England  to  sit  like  coroners  on  this  mound 
in  the  sea.  They  say  they  're  going  to  bring  tjie 
corpse  back  to  life.  I  've  been  offered  a  big  price  for 
this  old  place  but  I  'm  not  selling." 

Gerry  looked  at  the  Barbadian's  rather  shabby 
clothes.  "  Why  don't  you  sell  if  you  don't  want  to 
work  the  place?  It's  worth  money.  I  know  enough 
to  tell  you  that." 

The  Barbadian  rested  one  hand  high  on  the  thick 
trunk  of  a  wistaria.  A  slow  smile  drew  the  corners 
of  his  mouth.  "Worth  money?"  he  echoed.  "My 
boy,  not  every  man  kills  the  thing  that  he  loves  best. 
This  is  my  home.  You  read  those  dates  written  in 
dust  and  still  you  thought  my  home  was  dead.  But 
it  is  n't  dead.  I  have  n't  killed  the  thing  that  I  love 


316  HOME 

best.  You  can  get  cash,  comfort  and  cool  drinks  al- 
most anywhere,  but  I  have  remembered  that  memories 
travel  only  beaten  paths." 

Even  as  Gerry  picked  his  way  back  to  the  waiting 
cab  he  felt  Red  Hill  reaching  out  for  him,  drawing  him. 
And  during  the  long,  slow  drive  to  the  quay  he  learned 
that  he  had  passed  the  crossroads  that  had  given  so 
long  a  pause  to  his  troubled  soul.  The  Barbadian  had 
opened  his  eyes.  Doubt  left  him.  There  was  but  one 
road  —  the  road  back  —  and  it  was  open.  He  wrote  his 
cable  to  Alix  with  a  firm  hand. 

The  freighter  reached  quarantine  after  a  quiet  voy- 
age twelve  hours  ahead  of  time  and  just  at  sundown. 
A  tug  hurried  down  the  bay  to  tell  them  their  berth 
was  not  ready.  The  freighter  was  forced  to  anchor 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Narrows.  Gerry  watched  the  lights 
spring  out  from  the  shadowy  shores.  They  beckoned 
him  to  familiar  scenes.  Staten  Island  had  been  to  his 
boyhood  an  undiscovered  land  and  the  scene  of  his  first 
wanderings.  Bayshore  he  knew  through  constant  pass- 
ing by.  In  the  sky  beyond  it,  hung  the  glow  of  the 
summer  city,  here  and  there  pierced  with  the  brighter 
flame  of  some  grotesque  monstrosity. 

Up  the  bay  the  dark  waters  forked  into  two  bands 
that  lost  themselves  in  a  sea  and  sky  of  twinkling  lights. 
He  could  just  determine  the  sweeping  arch  of  Brooklyn 
Bridge  and  the  presence  of  more  than  one  new  tower 
of  Babel  that  broke  the  ever-changing  skyline  of  his 
native  city  and  made  him  feel,  by  that  much,  forgotten 
and  an  alien.  But  from  all  the  myriad  lesser  lights 
his  eyes  turned  gratefully  to  the  high-held  torch  of 


HOME  31Y 

Liberty.  Beneath  it,  the  familiar,  tilted  diadem,  the 
shadowy  folds  draping  the  up-standing  pose,  the 
strength  and  steadfastness  and  the  titanic  grandeur  of 
the  statue,  carried  their  message  to  him  as  never  be- 
fore. It  became  to  him  what  its  creator  had  con- 
ceived, an  emblem,  and  the  myriad  little  waves  of  the 
bay,  rushing  to  fling  themselves  at  the  feet  of  the  God- 
dess, became  a  multitude,  eager  for  attainment,  ready 
for  sacrifice. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

IT  was  ten  o'clock  on  a  morning  in  early  autumn 
when  Gerry  finally  got  free  of  the  freighter  and 
took  the  ferry  for  the  other  side  of  the  river.  He  had 
left  all  his  baggage  to  be  delivered  at  the  house  later. 
The  morning  was  clear  but  sultry.  In  the  city  the 
apathy  of  summer  days  had  settled  down.  People 
glanced  at  Gerry's  heavy  tweeds  and  antiquated  hat 
but  they  did  not  smile,  for  Gerry  himself  was  such  a 
sight  as  makes  men  forget  clothes.  The  tan  of  his 
lean  face,  the  swing  of  his  big,  unpadded  shoulders, 
his  clear  eyes,  carried  the  thoughts  of  passers-by  away 
from  clothes  and  city  things.  They  seemed  to  catch 
a  breath  of  spicy  winds  from  the  worn  garments  that 
clung  to  the  stranger's  virile  body  and  in  his  eyes  they 
saw  a  mirage  of  far-away  places. 

As  Gerry  reached  his  own  house,  he  was  outwardly 
calm,  even  deliberate,  but  inwardly  he  was  fighting 
down  a  turmoil  of  emotions.  What  was  he  to  find  in 
Alix?  Had  he  anything  to  give  in  exchange?  Had 
he  too  much  ?  He  climbed  the  steps  slowly.  His  hand 
trembled  as  he  reached  out  to  raise  the  heavy  bronze 
knocker.  Before  his  fingers  could  seize  it,  the  door 
swung  softly  inward.  Old  John  bowed  before  him. 
For  a  moment  Gerry  stood  dazed.  The  naturalness  of 

that  open  door,  of  the  old  butler,  of  the  cool  shadows 

318 


HOME  319 

in  the  old  familiar  hall,  struck  straight  at  his  heart 
with  the  shrewd  poignancy  of  simple  things.  Old 
John  raised  a  smiling  face  to  greet  him  but  down  one 
wrinkled  cheek  crawled  a  surprised  tear. 

Gerry  held  out  his  hand.     "  How  do  you  do,  John  ?  " 

"I  am  very  well  to-day,  sir,"  said  John.  "Mrs. 
Gerry  is  in  the  library.  She  told  me  to  telephone  to 
the  club  and  if  you  were  there  to  say  she  wished  to 
see  you." 

Gerry  was  puzzled.  Why  should  Alix  think  he 
would  go  to  the  club?  He  handed  the  butler  his  old 
hat  and  strode  to  the  library  door.  The  door  was 
closed.  He  knocked.  Somebody  said,  "  Come  in." 
The  words  were  so  low  he  hardly  heard  them.  He 
opened  the  door,  stepped  inside  and  closed  it  behind 
him. 

Alix,  dressed  in  a  filmy  blue  and  white  house-gown, 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  With  one  hand  up- 
raised, the  other  outstretched,  she  seemed  to  be  poised, 
equally  ready  for  advance  or  flight.  Her  eyes  passed 
swiftly  over  Gerry's  face,  swept  searching  down  to  his 
feet  and  back  again  to  his  face.  For  weeks  she  had 
been  wondering.  Terrible  things  had  come  to  her 
mind.  Alan  and  Gerry,  with  his  heartless  note,  had 
conspired  to  mystify,  to  terrify  her.  All  the  joy  she 
had  looked  forward  to  in  Gerry's  home-coming  had 
turned  into  a  bitter  pain.  They  had  not  known  on  the 
Hill  how  she  was  suffering.  Only  Kemp  had  seemed 
to  understand  a  little  and  had  brought  his  drop  of  com- 
fort to  her. 

As  her  eyes  searched  Gerry  the  sense  of  impending 


320  HOME 

calamity  left  her.  He  was  well,  well  as  she  had  never 
seen  him  before.  Except  for  that  he  seemed  almost 
weirdly  familiar,  as  though  only  a  good  night's  sleep 
lay  between  him  and  the  morning  of  three  years  ago 
when  he  had  bullied  her  until  she  had  fought  back  and 
overwhelmed  him. 

A  hundred  little  differences  went  to  make  up  this 
solitary  change.  The  flush  of  too  many  drinks  had 
given  way  to  a  deep  healthy  glow,  the  eyes  were  deep 
and  grave  instead  of  deep  and  vacant,  the  broad 
shoulders  that  had  taken  to  hanging  were  braced  in 
unconscious  strength.  Every  line  in  the  body  that  she 
had  seen  start  on  the  road  to  grossness  had  been  fined 
down.  The  body  was  no  longer  a  mere  abode  for  a 
lingering  spirit.  It  had  become  a  mechanism,  tuned 
to  expression  in  action.  It  was  not  the  body  of  a  time- 
server.  Alan's  sole  word  of  comfort  came  back  to 
her.  "  I  never  thought  the  old  Rock  would  ever  loom 
so  big."  What  force  had  done  this  thing  to  Gerry? 
She  felt  a  pang,  half  envy,  half  remorse.  If  she  had 
been  wise,  less  than  that,  if  she  had  been  merely  sage, 
could  she  not  have  saved  Gerry  to  himself  and  spared 
her  faith  the  test  of  the  three  long  years  lost  out  of 
their  youth  ? 

Gerry  stood  erect  by  the  door,  one  hand  still  holding 
the  knob.  Why  was  he  waiting?  Alix's  raised  hand 
went  slowly  out  to  him  in  welcome  but  he  did  not 
move.  She  smiled  at  him  but  his  eyes  remained  stead- 
fast and  grave.  A  lump  rose  in  Alix's  throat  and  then, 
as  pride  came  to  her  aid,  a  flare  of  color  showed  in  her 
cheeks.  Her  lips  opened.  What  could  she  say  to  hurt 


HOME  321 

him  enough,  to  pay  him  back  for  this  added,  unjust 
rebuff?  She  knew  so  little  about  this  new  Gerry. 
How  could  she  wound  him? 

And  then  he  spoke.  "Will  you  please  sit  down? 
There  are  things  I  must  tell  you." 

Gerry  had  blundered  on  magic  words.  There  is  no 
moment  so  emotionally  tense  that  a  true  woman  will 
not  drop  the  immediate  issue  to  sit  down  and  listen 
to  the  untold  things  she  has  wanted  to  hear.  Alix  was 
a  true  woman.  The  flare  died  out  of  her  cheeks.  She 
sank  into  a  chair  beside  the  dully  shining  mahogany 
table  and  with  a  nod  of  her  golden  head  motioned  Gerry 
to  a  seat  opposite  her.  She  watched  the  easy  swing  of 
his  body  as  he  moved  across  the  room.  Gerry's  mind 
was  in  sore  conflict,  but  a  body  in  perfect  health  has  a 
way  of  taking  care  of  itself. 

Gerry  sat  down  and  gripped  the  edge  of  the  table 
with  outstretched  hands.  He  looked  steadily  into  Alix' 
eyes.  The  moment  he  had  foreseen  had  come.  Alix 
sat  in  judgment.  She  planted  her  bare  elbows  on  the 
table,  laid  one  hand,  palm  down  on  the  other  and  on 
them  both  rested  her  cheek.  Her  head  with  its  heavy 
crown  of  hair  was  thus  to  one  side  but  also  tilted 
slightly  forward.  That  slight  forward  tilt  gave 
strength  to  the  pose  and  intensity.  A  curious,  measur- 
ing look  came  into  Alix's  eyes.  She  was  silent  and  she 
was  waiting. 

Gerry  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  table  and  began  to 
talk.  "The  things  I  have  got  to  tell  you,"  he  said, 
"begin  with  that  day  —  our  last  day.  T  went  out 
and  walked  for  hours  and  realized  that  I  had  been 


322  HOME 

rough  and  unjust  and  to  blame.  I  came  over  to  the 
Avenue  and  was  standing  looking  at  some  flowers  when 
you  passed.  I  saw  you  in  the  plate-glass  of  the  win- 
dow. I  turned  around  to  make  sure.  I  recognized 
your  trunk.  I  followed  you  to  the  station.  I  saw 
Alan  signal  to  you.  I  saw  you  get  into  the  train." 

Gerry  stopped.  His  premise  was  finished  and  he 
found  that  he  had  no  tongue  to  tell  the  things  he  had 
thought  —  the  long  argument  of  the  soul.  He  realized 
that  all  that  must  be  left  out.  He  must  confine  him- 
self to  mere  physical  facts,  let  them  troop  up  in  the 
order  in  which  they  had  come  upon  him  and  file  naked 
before  Alix.  She  must  dress  them  as  she  saw  fit,  as 
her  sympathies  and  her  justice  directed.  He  would 
give  her  but  the  ground-work,  plain  simple  words  such 
as  he  could  command,  telling  the  events  that  had  come 
upon  him  and  how  he  had  met  them. 

Of  the  trip  out  he  had  nothing  to  say  but  of  Pernam- 
buco  he  told  her  in  detail.  Somehow  it  seemed  the 
least  he  could  do  for  the  filthy  and  beautiful  city  that 
had  given  him  an  unquestioning  asylum.  He  told  her 
of  the  quay,  the  Lingueta,  with  its  line  of  tall,  stained 
houses,  its  vast  plane  trees  and  its  cobbled  esplanade, 
the  stage  where  the  city's  life  was  in  perpetual  review. 
His  words  came  slowly  but  they  left  nothing  out.  Un- 
consciously he  created  an  atmosphere.  A  light  of  in- 
terest burned  in  Alix's  eyes.  She  saw  the  changing 
scene.  It  charmed  her  to  restfulness  as  it  had  Gerry. 

She  smelt  the  stacks  of  pineapples,  the  heaped-up 
mangoes,  the  frying  fish,  and  through  his  eyes  she  saw 
the  blue  skies  dotted  with  white,  still  clouds  and 


HOME  323 

glimpsed  the  secret,  high-walled  gardens  with  their 
flaring  hibiscus,  trailing  fuchsias,  fantastic  garden 
cockscombs  and  dark-domed  mango  and  jack  trees.  She 
sat  with  Gerry  beside  the  wreck  of  a  consul  and,  later, 
on  the  long  slim  coasting  craft  she  listened  with  him 
to  the  creak  of  straining  masts  and  stays  and  to  the 
lap  of  hurrying  waters.  She  followed  him  up  the  San 
Francisco,  felt  his  impatience  with  Penedo,  took  the 
little  stern-wheeler  and  learned  the  fascination  of  a  river 
with  endless,  undiscovered  turns.  They  came  to 
Piranhas.  Here  she  felt  herself  on  familiar  ground. 
Letters  from  the  consul's  envoy  had  made  this  place 
hers.  Unconsciously  she  nodded  as  Gerry  described 
the  tiers  of  houses,  the  twisted,  climbing  streets,  the 
miserable  little  inn. 

Gerry  told  of  the  happy  days  of  ponderous  canoeing 
and  of  the  unvarying  strings  of  fish.  He  lingered  over 
those  days.  Thus  far  he  had  brought  Alix  with  him. 
He  felt  it.  Now  he  came  to  the  morning  when  he 
must  leave  her  behind.  He  told  her  of  the  glorious 
break  of  that  day,  of  the  sun  fighting  through  swirling 
mists.  She  saw  him  standing  stripped  on  the  sandspit. 
She  saw  the  canoe  nosing  heavily  against  the  shore  and 
his  pajamas  tossed  carelessly  across  a  thwart.  She 
knew  that  she  had  come  to  the  moment  of  revelation. 
She  breathed  softly  lest  she  should  lose  a  word  for  Gerry 
was  speaking  very  low.  Then  he  showed  her  Mar- 
garita, Margarita  as  he  had  first  seen  her,  kissing  and 
kissed  by  dawn. 

A  hard  light  came  into  Alix's  eyes.  Gerry  felt  him- 
self suddenly  alone.  He  went  doggedly  on.  He  told 


324  HOME 

of  the  chase  and  the  capture,  of  how  he  and  the  girl 
had  seen  the  canoe  drift  out  into  the  clutch  of  the  eddy 
and  swirl  out  into  the  river  and  away.  He  told  her 
of  how  they  laughed  and  Alix  shrank.  Gerry  paused, 
his  brow  puckered.  He  wished  he  could  tell  in  words 
the  battle  of  his  spirit,  the  utter  ruin  of  his  downfall. 
He  could  not  and  instead  he  sighed. 

There  was  something  in  that  sigh  so  eloquent  of  de- 
feated expression  that  it  succeeded  where  words  might 
have  failed.  It  called  to  Alix  with  the  strong  call  of 
helpless  things.  It  drew  back  her  mind  to  Gerry. 
With  him  and  the  girl  she  threaded  the  path  to  Fazenda 
Flores.  Its  ruin  sprang  upon  her  through  his  eyes. 
With  him  she  discovered  the  traces  of  an  ancient  ditch, 
with  him  and  the  old  darky  she  dug  along  that  line 
through  long,  hot  months.  She  met  Father  Mathias 
and  found  no  flaw  in  his  logic,  she  grew  to  know  Lieber 
as  the  tale  went  on  and  finally  to  love  him  because  of  all 
things  Lieber  seemed  to  need  love  —  somebody  else's 
love  —  most.  She  amused  herself  with  Kemp  and  his 
drawl.  She  tried  to  keep  her  thoughts  away  from  Mar- 
garita and  at  the  coming  of  Margarita's  boy,  she  winced. 

As  he  finished  telling  of  the  coming  of  the  Man, 
Gerry  stopped  short.  The  thought  came  to  him  with 
tremendous  force  that  Alix  too  had  gone  through  that 
for  him.  The  impulse  to  get  up  and  throw  himself  be- 
fore her  and  on  his  knees  to  thank  her  almost  tore  him 
from  his  seat  but  he  fought  it  down.  He  hurried  on 
with  his  story.  He  told  of  the  coming  of  Alan  and  of 
the  revelation  he  had  brought.  And  then  in  a  choked 
voice  and  only  because  he  had  set  himself  to  tell  the 


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whole  truth  he  pictured  the  flood,  the  death  of  True 
Blue,  and  the  overwhelming  by  the  waters  before  his 
very  eyes  of  Margarita  and  the  Man.  Then  he  arose 
and  with  hands  braced  on  the  table  leaned  towards 
Alix.  "  I  have  told  you  all  this  so  that  perhaps  you 
may  understand  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  now.  If 
the  flood  had  not  come  —  if  Margarita  and  the  Man 
had  lived  —  I  would  not  have  come  back." 

Alix  sat  very  still  and  studied  Gerry's  face.  He 
had  finished  the  task  he  had  set  himself  to  do  and  he 
was  suddenly  very  tired.  His  eyes  dropped  as  though 
from  their  own  weight  and  then  he  raised  them  again 
to  her  inscrutable  face. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  asked  after  a  long  pause. 

"  Well  ?  "  replied  Alix. 

Gerry's  stalwart  figure  drooped.  "  It  is  quite  just," 
he  said,  "  after  all  that,  that  you  should  not  want  me. 
I  have  spent  the  last  weeks  making  myself  ready  for 
that.  You  waited  for  me ;  I  did  n't  wait  for  you.  If 
you  do  not  want  me,  I  will  go  away." 

Alix  rose  slowly  to  her  feet.  She  looked  very  slim 
and  tall  in  her  clinging  gown.  To  Gerry  she  looked 
very  cold.  "  Before  you  go,"  she  said,  "  there  is  just 
one  thing.  I  wish  you  would  kiss  me  —  once." 

Gerry's  body  straightened  and  stiffened.  He  stared 
at  her  grave  face  with  wondering  eyes.  Then  he  felt 
a  strange  tingling  ripple  through  his  blood  and  before 
he  knew  what  he  did  he  had  swept  her  from  her  feet, 
crushed  her  to  him,  brushed  the  crown  of  hair  back  from 
her  brow  and  kissed  her  eyes,  her  mouth,  her  throat. 
He  was  rough  with  her.  He  was  bruising  her  body, 


326  HOME 

her  lips,  but  Alix  clung  to  him  and  laughed.  Then 
suddenly  all  her  slim  body  relaxed  and  slipped  through 
his  arms  to  a  little  white  heap  on  the  floor.  She  began 
to  sob.  Gerry  stooped  down,  picked  her  up  tenderly 
and  laid  her  on  the  great  leathern  couch.  He  knelt  be- 
side her.  On  one  arm  he  pillowed  her  head,  with  the 
other  hand  he  sought  hers.  "  Please,  Alix,"  he  begged, 
"  please  don't  cry." 

"  I  'm  not  crying,"  sobbed  Alix,  "  I  'm  laughing." 

Gerry  smiled  and  waited.  Soon  Alix  became  quiet. 
Her  eyes  closed.  She  drew  a  long,  quivering  breath 
and  then  she  opened  her  eyes  again  and  her  lips  broke 
into  the  old  dear  smile,  the  smile  of  an  opening  flower. 
"  I  am  tired  —  tired,"  she  said,  "  but  I  believe  I  'm  al- 
most hungrier  than  I  am  tired." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  said  it  first,"  replied  Gerry  giving 
serious  thought  to  the  fact  that  he  was  faint  with 
hunger  himself.  "  Ever  since  some  funny  Johnny 
wrote,  'Eeed  the  brute,'  we  men  have  been  shy  about 
echoing  our  stomachs.  It 's  four  o'clock.  Hours  after 
lunch  time." 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Alix,  nestling  down  closer  to  his  arm 
and  letting  her  smiling  eyes  wander  over  him.  "  How 
well  this  suit  fits  you.  There  's  something  about  it  — 
It  is  n't,  is  it  ?  " 

Gerry  nodded.  "  Same  old  suit.  By  the  way,  when 
I  came  in  John  said  you  told  him  to  telephone  to  the 
club  and  say  you  wished  to  see  me.  What  made  you 
think  I  would  go  to  the  club  first  ? " 

Alix  looked  puzzled.  "  I  did  n't.  I  did  n't  think 
you  would  go  to  the  club  and  I  did  n't  tell  John  to 


HOME  327 

telephone."  She  paused,  still  puzzling,  then  her  face 
cleared.  "  Why  —  poor  old  John  —  he  's  getting  very 
old,  you  know,  Gerry.  That  was  three  years  ago  I 
told  him  to  telephone  —  the  day  you  never  came  back. 
It  must  have  been  the  suit.  He  saw  you  standing  there 
in  the  same  suit  and  three  years  became  as  one  day 
to  the  old  fellow." 

Gerry  sighed.  "  Alix,  do  you  want  those  three  years 
to  become  as  a  day  to  us  ?  " 

Alix  shook  her  head  slowly  from  side  to  side.  "  No, 
dear,  I  don't.  They  have  given  me  —  given  us  both 
—  far  more  than  they  took  away."  She  put  her  bare 
arms  around  his  neck,  drew  him  down  and  kissed  him. 
"  You  do  not  know  yet  all  that  they  have  given  you. 
You  think  you  have  come  back  and  found  me,  a  fritter- 
ing butterfly  in  a  great  empty  house.  But  you  've 
found  only  my  abandoned  cocoon.  I  'm  not  here  at 
all.  I  've  packed  myself  into  the  dearest  little  bundle 
of  pink  fat,  yellow  curls  and  chubby  legs,  and  left  the 
bundle  on  Red  Hill." 

Gerry  nodded  but  he  was  grave  and  silent.  Not  in 
a  day  nor  a  month  could  he  altogether  forget  the  Man. 


GERRY  had  always  been  quiet  but  during  the  long 
drive  from  the  station  to  The  Firs,  his  silence 
amounted  to  a  penetrating  stillness.  Alix  felt  it  but 
it  did  not  depress  her;  she  knew  herself  to  be  in  the 
presence  of  a  communion.  Gerry  was  devoting  the 
hour  of  his  return  to  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood  to  a 
silent  consecration.  These  cool  valleys  and  hollows; 
the  Low  Road,  with  its  purling  accompaniment  of  hid- 
den waters;  the  embowered  still  nave  of  Long  Lane, 
were  as  the  ancestral  halls  of  the  Lansings.  It  was 
right  that  he  should  do  homage  to  the  memories  they 
evoked. 

To  his  mother  Gerry  made  no  explanations.  He 
knew  that  to  her  it  was  enough  that  her  boy  had  come 
back.  When  Mrs.  Lansing  released  him,  Alix  caught 
his  hand  and  led  him  up  to  the  nursery.  Together 
they  looked  down  upon  their  sleeping  child. 

Gerry,  Junior,  was  fat  to  the  verge  of  a  split.  His 
curly  tow  head  was  tousled  and  on  his  brow  a  slight 
perspiration  testified  to  the  labor  of  sound  sleep.  His 
arms  were  outstretched.  His  legs  had  kinks  at  the 
knees,  they  were  so  chubby.  His  petulant  little  mouth 
was  half  open,  disclosing  tiny  teeth. 

"  Is  n't  he  a  beauty  ? "  asked  Alix  a  little  loudly, 

wishing  he  would  awaken. 

328 


HOME  329 

Gerry  nodded.  With  his  eyes  still  on  the  child  he 
put  his  arm  around  Alix  and  drew  her  to  him.  What 
Margarita  had  done  for  him,  Alix  had  done.  As  he 
felt  her  frail  body  quivering  in  his  embrace,  as  he 
looked  back  and  measured  the  sacrifice  by  what  the  aw- 
ful night  of  the  coming  of  the  Man  had  taught  him, 
he  was  overwhelmed  by  a  new  humility.  He  turned 
Alix's  face  up  to  his.  His  lips  moved  in  an  effort  to 
thank  her  but  words  failed  him.  Alix  understood. 
She  lifted  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  drew  his  head 
down.  He  held  her  body  very  close  as  he  kissed  her, 
softly,  adoringly.  Alix  hid  her  face  against  his 
shoulder  for  a  moment  and  then  threw  back  her  head 
and  shook  the  tears  from  her  eyelashes.  She  smiled 
through  wet  eyes.  "  I  am  afraid  he 's  not  quite  per- 
fect —  inside.  Such  a  temper,  Gerry.  I  'm  afraid 
he  '11  grow  up  into  a  man  about  town  and  awfully  wild." 
She  turned  grave  eyes  on  Gerry,  Junior,  and  her  brows 
puckered.  "  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

Gerry  smiled.  "  From  the  looks  of  him  I  predict 
he  gets  his  letter  in  Freshman  year  —  center  on  the 
football  team." 

"Yes,  perhaps,"  said  Alix  thoughtfully.  "Every- 
body calls  him  Fatty  already." 

It  was  from  Alan  that  Gerry  learned  that  Kemp  was 
still  in  town  closing  up  his  connection  with  the  orchid 
firm.  Gerry  wired  him,  begging  him  to  come  to  The 
Firs  for  a  few  days  before  he  went  West.  Alix  had 
told  of  Kemp's  word  of  comfort. 

After  the  first  excitement  of  getting  home  was  over 
Gerry  found  himself  restless  with  the  same  restlessness 


330  HOME 

that  had  attacked  him  during  the  days  at  Piranhas. 
He  tried  for  a  solution  in  the  same  way.  Day  after 
day,  long  before  the  rest  of  the  Hill  was  awake,  he  was 
off  for  a  ten  mile  walk. 

At  first  it  was  with  head  dropped  and  eyes  on  the 
ground  that  he  plowed  his  way  through  a  dew-soaked 
world,  but  there  came  a  time  when  he  walked  with  head 
thrown  back,  full  lungs  and  level  eyes. 

Then  Kemp  arrived.  Gerry  tried  to  get  him  to  join 
him  in  his  walks  but  Kemp  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  Ef  yo'  can't  let  me  have  a  hoss,  Mr.  Lansing,"  he 
said,  "  I  '11  ride  the  cow." 

Gerry  laughed.  They  saddled  the  horses  themselves 
and  started  out.  On  the  top  of  old  Bald  Head  Gerry 
dismounted  and  sat  down  on  a  rock.  Kemp  followed 
suit. 

"  Kemp,"  said  Gerry,  "  I  want  to  thank  you  for  the 
things  you  said  to  my  wife  —  Alix." 

Kemp  flushed  and  waved  a  deprecating  hand. 

"  You  saw  things  straight,"  went  on  Gerry,  "  and  I 
want  to  thank  you,  too,  for  letting  me  hog-tie  myself." 

"  I  ain't  curious  about  that,  Mr.  Lansing,"  said 
Kemp,  "  so  much  's  about  what  you  're  goin'  to  do  when 
yo'  untie  yo'seff." 

"Well,"  said  Gerry,  "I've  thought  that  out  too. 
For  a  while  it  used  to  break  my  heart  to  think  about 
Fazenda  Flores  but  it  came  to  me  the  other  day  that 
what  there  is  of  me  that  amounts  to  anything  is  just 
Eazenda  Mores. 

"When  a  man  learns  to  eat  work  just  like  he  does 
food  because  he  's  hungry  for  it,  there 's  bound  to  be 


HOME  331 

a  place  for  him  anywhere.  It  has  struck  me  there  are 
a  lot  of  fields  around  here,  some  of  them  mine,  that  are 
about  ready  for  resurrection,  and  resurrection  is  my 
job. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly  how  I  'm  going  to  start  but  it 
may  be  planting  potatoes.  You  can  begin  a  resurrec- 
tion with  any  one  of  a  number  of  simple  things.  It 
does  n't  matter  much  which  one  you  pick  on  as  long  as 
you  start  right  down  at  the  bottom  and  spread  your- 
self in  the  subsoil  of  things.  Everything  that  grows 
starts  down  deep  except  your  orchids  and  they  are 
parasites  — " 

"  Easy  on  orchids,"  interjected  Kemp. 

"  Sorry,  Kemp.  Orchids  are  ornamental  but  ex- 
cepting your  favorites  they  're  not  even  beautiful. 
Look  at  a  Cypripedium  Vexillarium — " 

"  Hybrid,"  grunted  Kemp. 

"  A  man  in  his  D.  T.'s  could  n't  beat  it  for  gorgeous 
horror,"  finished  Gerry.  "  But  that 's  neither  here  nor 
there.  What  I  'm  driving  at  is  this.  If  I  had  never 
been  tossed  over  the  home  fence  I  would  have  lived  and 
died  an  ornamental  citizen  with  the  girth  of  a  beer  bar- 
rel. But  now  my  eyes  are  a  bit  open  and  I  can  see 
that  the  simple  things  of  life  are  the  big  things. 
Growth  from  the  roots  is  the  strength  of  a  man  and  of 
his  people.  I  've  come  home  in  more  senses  than  one. 
I  'm  going  to  send  down  my  roots  right  here." 

Kemp  had  been  whittling.  When  Gerry  had  finished 
he  pocketed  his  knife  and  gazed  thoughtfully  down  the 
valley.  "It  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Lansing,  that  you 'nd 
me  have  been  travelin'  diff'rent  trails  but  come  together 


332  HOME 

at  the  same  gap.     You  remember  '  The  Pu'ple  City '  ?  " 

Gerry  nodded. 

"  Wai,  seems  to  me  thet  'ceptin'  in  a  man's  own  mind 
the'  ain't  no  pu'ple  cities.  What  a  man  's  got  to  find 
ain't  pu'ple  cities  but  the  power  to  see  one  when  he  's 
got  it.  You  had  yourn  right  here  in  this  valley  an'  yon 
side  on  Red  Hill.  You  growed  up  in  it  but  you  never 
seen  it  —  not  till  you  learned  how.  What  you  been 
sayin'  about  the  simple  things  of  life  —  the  things  thet 
is  at  the  bottom  —  has  he'ped  my  seein'  parts  a  power- 
ful lot.  I  knowed  before  I  come  to  Red  Hill  that  I 
was  goin'  out  West  to  stay  but  I  did  n't  rightly  know 
why.  Now  ef  you  ask  me  what  I  know  I  can  tell  you 
I  know  consid'able. 

"  Out  in  Noo  Mexico  they  's  a  ranch  in  the  fork  of 
Big  and  Little  Creek  that 's  the  greenest  patch  in  the 
shadow  of  White  Mountain.  It 's  mine  and  it 's  got  a 
three-room  shack  on  it  that  could  grow  if  need  was.  I 
know  a  girl  that 's  been  holdin'  a  four-flush  against  an 
orchid's  weak  pair  till  she 's  jest  about  sick  of  the  game, 
but  she  's  drawed  and  filled  on  the  last  hand  though 
she  hain't  had  a  chanst  to  look  at  her  cards  yet. 

"  For  some  while  the 's  been  a  pu'ple  light  hangin* 
over  Big  and  Little  Creek  an'  I  reckon  I  '11  be  able  to 
see  it  plainer  an'  plainer  the  nigher  I  get  to  it  an'  if 
the  girl  will  he'p  me  I  reckon  that  in  a  small  way  we  '11 
soon  be  growin'  a  pu'ple  city  that  will  feed  from  yo' 
hand.  Ef  ever  you  feel  the  need  of  some  bran'  new 
air,  Mr.  Lansing,  you  come  out  to  Big  and  Little. 
There  won't  be  much  besides  air  but  it  '11  be  fresh  made 
on  White  Mountain  an'  you  can  smell  it  comin'  down 


HOME  333 

through  the  pines  an'  see  it  playin'  with  the  leaves  on 
the  cottonwoods  an'  plowin'  through  the  tops  of  the 
sorghum." 

They  sat  for  some  time  in  silence  then  Gerry  said, 
"  I  've  been  calling  you  '  Kemp '  since  I  first  saw  you 
but  you  still  hang  on  to  the  '  mister '  when  you  talk  to 
me.  Cut  it  out,  Kemp." 

Kemp  flushed  slightly.  "  Some  things  is  fittin'  an* 
some  ain't,"  he  said,  "  an'  we  can't  always  rightly  say 
why.  Some  folks  is  governed  by  conscience  but  most 
by  pride.  It 's  goin'  to  be  '  Kemp  '  and  '  Mister  Lan- 
sing '  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  Mr.  Lansing,  an'  no 
friendship  lost  either.  Shake." 

They  shook  hands  solemnly,  mounted  and  started 
back  to  Eed  Hill.  Gerry  had  found  the  key  to  Kemp's 
strength.  It  was  the  key  to  all  strength.  Kemp  be- 
longed on  the  Hill,  and  with  the  people  of  true  blood 
anywhere,  not  only  because  he  was  himself  always  but 
because  he  defended  what  he  could  hold  and  no  more. 
He  was  a  definition  for  independence. 


CHAPTEK  XLV 

IT  was  late  afternoon  of  a  day  in  the  Gorgeous 
Month.  A  shower  had  fallen  on  Red  Hill  and  after 
it  had  come  the  sun.  Wisps  of  mare's-tail  cloud  hur- 
ried across  the  clean-washed  heavens  as  though  they 
were  ashamed  to  be  caught  in  their  ragged  clothes  under 
a  blue  sky.  Downy-topped  masses  of  cumulus  poked 
drowsy  heads  over  the  horizon  and  watched  them  run. 
Out  of  the  dome  of  heaven  filtered  a  single  trill  of  song. 

The  Hill  was  very  still  but  presently  from  far  away 
on  the  West  Lake  Road  came  the  whinny  of  a  horse ;  a 
little  later,  a  little  nearer,  a  peal  of  laughter;  then 
the  sound  of  wheels  and  chattering  voices.  A  wagon- 
ette, two  spring  wagons  and  a  pony  cart  burst  from 
Long  Lane  and  wheeled  right  and  left.  They  were 
full  of  grown-ups  turned  young  for  a  day  and  youths 
that  thought  they  would  be  young  forever. 

The  wagonette,  swinging  down  the  road  toward 
Maple  House,  suddenly  swerved  and  plowed  through  the 
tall  grass.  Alan  and  Clem  on  the  end  seats  were  al- 
most thrown  out.  Alan  looked  back  at  the  road  and 
stared.  A  fat  donkey  had  claimed  the  right  of  way 
and  held  it.  Several  lengths  of  legs  stuck  out  from 
her  bulging  sides.  Behind  her  hurried  a  panting  nurse. 

Alan  turned  to  Clem.     "  Do  donkeys  never  die  ?  " 
334 


HOME  335 

"  Oh !  I  hope  not,"  said  Clem  gravely.  "  You 
change  them.  We  changed  ours  while  you  were  away." 

"  So  she  has  been  changed,"  said  Alan.  "  Well, 
that 's  something." 

"  Silly,"  said  Clem,  "  you  've  been  seeing  that  donkey 
every  day  for  weeks." 

"  No"  said  Alan,  "  this  is  the  first  time  I  Ve  really 
seen  her." 

The  sun  took  a  last  long  look  at  Red  Hill  and  dropped 
out  of  sight.  Then,  as  though  he  would  come  back  and 
look  again,  he  sent  up  a  broad  afterglow  that  climbed 
and  climbed  till  the  tip  of  the  very  clouds  that  peeped 
over  East  Mountain  were  tinged  with  the  rosy  light. 

From  an  open  up-stairs  window  came  Clem's  soft 
voice.  "  Yes,  dears,  pink  night-caps.  Those  big 
sleepy  clouds  are  putting  them  on  because  they  are  just 
glad  to  go  to  bed." 

"  I  wanta  pink  night-cap." 

"  Why,  darling,  night-caps  are  only  for  white-headed 
people  and  white-headed  clouds.  Just  wait  until  you  're 
white-headed.  Now  climb  into  bed  and  I  '11  tell  — " 

Beyond  the  mountain-ash  thicket  a  love-sick  Bob- 
White  kept  saying  "  Good-night  —  Good-night,"  to  his 
mate.  She  answered  sleepily. 

From  Maple  House,  The  Firs,  and  far  down  the 
road,  from  Elm  House  warm  lights  flashed  out  and 
settled  down  into  a  steady  glow.  A  burst  of  young 
voices  swept  into  the  night  and  died  away,  followed 
into  the  silence  by  soft  laughter.  From  The  Firs  came 
the  last  angry  wail  of  the  fat  young  god,  choked  off 
in  mid-flight  by  the  soft  hand  of  sleep.  Then  the  scur- 


336  HOME 

rying  of  many  feet  along  the  dusty  road,  silence,  and 
last  of  all,  the  trailing  whistle  of  a  boy  signaling  good- 
night —  sound  saying  good-by  to  a  happy  day. 

Hours  passed  before  the  moon  popped  into  the  sky, 
hurrying  just  at  first  as  though  she  knew  she  were 
forty  minutes  late  again.  One  by  one  lights  went  out. 
Other  lights  gleamed  from  upper  windows;  then  they, 
in  turn,  went  out.  Red  Hill  had  gone  to  bed. 

From  Maple  House  Alan  slipped  out  to  smoke  a  last 
cigar.  He  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  strode  through 
the  long  grass  laden  with  seed  and  just  decking  itself 
with  dewy  jewels  for  the  night.  He  crossed  to  the  old 
church.  The  door  was  open.  He  entered  and  climbed 
the  crumbling  stairs  to  the  belfry.  He  jumped  into 
one  of  the  arches  and  sat  down,  his  legs  dangling. 

His  eyes  wandered  slowly  over  the  familiar  scene. 
From  behind  their  trees  Maple  House,  The  Firs  and 
Elm  House  blinked  up  at  him  dreamily.  Before  them 
ran  the  ribbon  of  road,  white  under  moonlight,  dipping 
at  each  end  into  the  wide  world.  Up  and  down  the 
road  before  The  Firs,  paced  two  figures  —  Gerry  and 
Alix.  Gerry's  arm  was  around  her.  Long  black  shad- 
ows, all  pointing  to  the  west,  like  fallen  silhouettes  cut 
the  moonlight.  Above  them,  the  autumn-painted  trees 
gave  out  a  golden  echo  of  light. 

Alan  drew  a  great,  quivering  breath.  "  My  boy,  you 
have  been  far,  far  away,"  J.  Y.  had  said  and  he  had 
answered,  "  Yes,  but  I  have  come  back."  But  it  was 
only  now,  to-night,  that  he  had  really  come  back. 

Alan's    wandering    eyes    settled    on    Maple    House. 


HOME  337 

"  Even   as   a   hen   gathereth   her   chickens   under   her 
wings,"  he  whispered. 

And  then  the  peace  of  home  descended  upon  him. 
On  his  scarred  spirit  he  felt  the  touch  of  the  healing 
hands  of  home.  Its  sweetness  and  its  power,  its  love 
everlasting  demanding  love  forever,  knocked  at  his  wak- 
ing heart  and  found  the  door  open.  Far,  far  had  he 
wandered  in  the  world  of  mind  and  the  world  of  men, 
but  in  the  end  he  had  come  back  like  a  Wayne  to  the 
eternal  mother  of  the  Waynes.  To-night  he  knew  that 
his  drifting  soul  had  dropped  anchor  at  last. 


"  Seer,  Behold  the  picture." 
"  My  son,  there  is  that  which  bounds 
and  is  unbounded,  that  measures  and  is 
unmeasured,  that  limits  apparition  and 
delimits  occultation,  that  divides  but  is 
undivided.  Thou  hast  stood  on  the 
place  where  thy  heart  is  —  and  drawn 
a  circle." 


-    I  '  1   5 

•H 


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